


Don't Leave Me

by QuincySummers



Series: Don't Hold Back [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Background Relationships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt/Comfort, John gets hurt, John's a telepath, M/M, Mycroft is less of a bastard in this one, Psychic Abilities, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Sherlock is hurting, Slow Build, Telepathy, Torture, Wordcount: 50.000-100.000, alot, but a bastard nonetheless, this is angsty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 06:11:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 42,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2537111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuincySummers/pseuds/QuincySummers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Returns</p>
<p> </p>
<p>AU- John's a telepath<br/>Sequel to Don't Touch Me</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Coming Home

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry all. Its been a bit. Hope you forgive
> 
> All mistakes are my own.

_**One month after John's death...** _

The former detective, for Sherlock hasn't taken a case since, well since _John,_ sits in his darkened sitting room. The curtains, all dark colors and blocking out the early light of dawn. Bottles of vodka litter the flat. An interesting fact, considering that Sherlock barely remembers buying them. He hardly remembers the telltale burn as they as they trickle down his throat. The only thing that punches through to his memory is the nasty taste, sharp and bitter, as it soils his mouth from the first sip to the inevitable time where he blacks out.

Regardless, they serve their purpose.

The former detective sits upon their couch- no, no, no,-his couch. He doesn't remember the last time he's moved, but there is an unopened bottle in front of him. It must not have been too long ago then. Or, maybe its been sitting their unopened all night? He doesn't know or care to know.

Time passes funny for Sherlock these days. Sometimes, it's just one big cliché blur from one point to the next. Other days, a day like today, Sherlock Holmes is able to count every passing, agonizing second with extreme clarity.

He thinks that he's drank multiple bottles but he can't really be sure. He's only focused on one thing.

The anniversary.

Not just any anniversary. Today is _one month_ since John's death, murder.

That's why he got this, he thinks as he rolls the object in his hand. Something to help his pain, something he hasn't craved in years. The tiny vial glistens in his hand, despite the darkness. There is a hum in the back of his mind, observations that seem dull and distant but Sherlock ignores them. Improbabilities in his head along with other useless things that can get people killed. Things that _have_ gotten people killed.

Sherlock outwardly winces at the thought and grips the vial tightly. He turns it in his hand with familiarity and a bit of apprehension. In the background, what is left of his rational mind can hear the beginning of London awakening but the once great detective is all but focused on the vial in his hand, well the vial and the needle that is still laying on the table.

His needle, once thought to be his friend in life before, but even now, Sherlock realizes the desperation and downright pathetic lie he once told himself.

Yet, the needle shins with tempting seduction. He carefully puts the vial down next to his thin, sharp friend and leans back into the settee. His hands rest on his knees, clutching at the fabric and the craving that lays thickly in the flat. He could just reach out and take it and no one would really know. Mycroft isn't meant to come around until tomorrow. He could get away with it.

But then, what does he care about Mycroft? The man is a nuisance at best. John is dead.

The need will dull his senses and let him forget for a while. Forget that John is dead. Sherlock is used to his brain, usually welcomes the never-ending thoughts, and observations. But now, the thoughts and observations grate against his skull, not stopping, never stopping. John is dead. Flashes of _the_ blonde man assault his conscious mind constantly.

He is tired of thinking, he's tired of pain. He remembers the lips and the hair. The stupid jumpers that Sherlock wordlessly finds- found -endearing. He remembers the closeness and intimacy he shared both physically and mentally to the one person who had been his other half.

Even now, he can feel the gentle tug of someone else in his brain. He no longer reacts with glee to the observation and is well aware that the mental tug he feels is a phantom feeling, a transparent longing that is tricking his brain into believing realities that are untrue.

John is dead. His mind supplies him once again. Its been a month.

One month.

He can no longer stay strong. The younger man sighs heavily as he picks up the needle, shimmering in the dark room like a beacon of hope. Something to make him forget.

The brunette's phone chirps shrilly but he ignores it. He favors looking at the needle instead of the memories clogging up his tool, his brain. He wants the numbness to comfort him.

As he reaches for the vial in frustration something goes off in his head, a sort of alarm ringing incessantly.

 _"Sherlock, you are wasting almost six years of sobriety."_ His inner voice has his same cool tone with clinical detachment. He considers telling it to sod off. Doesn't it understand that he just wants to be numb? The man picks up a vial and rolls it in his palm again.

 _"John wouldn't want this."_ His conscience tries again and what a low blow that is. The thought freezes the young man with such a fierce sense of anger and longing that Sherlock physically shakes his head. Tears are already starting to fall.

 _He_ wouldn't want this, his own bloody conscience is right. The vial drops to the ground with a clink and the needle follows shortly after. The younger man's head is in his hands and the tears fall freely, dripping upon the carpet without shame.

 _"John."_ Sherlock pushes out mentally while he sits in his messy flat in the middle of London. For the rest of the day he curls into the couch and tries to sleep but he just ends up crying. He cries for an indefinite amount of time, writhing through every antagonizing second, his hysterics keeping him from passing into unconsciousness. All the while, wishing and calling for John and knowing that there will never be a response.

* * *

_**The Same Day but Across Seas...** _

_"John."_

A man bolts awake with a fevered shout. His chest heaves with short, shallow and uncontrollable breaths. Sweat glistens and slides down his naked chest.

The baritone, the voice that never leaves him, still vibrates within his mind. The grief that accompanies the voice is so heart wrenching that tears automatically spring to the man's eyes.

It's not even the first time this week.

John Watson, a man who is being forced (hidden) in a cottage somewhere in the snowy mountains of Switzerland. He's isolated from people by a physical barrier of many miles, a hundred at least considering the fact that he can hardly reach anyone mentally without straining.

He wipes furiously at his eyes, not mad at the cause but at the situation, never mad at Sherlock. He sighs, a deep breath that echoes throughout his entire body, and gets out of the scratchy sheets that make up his temporary bed.

Oh god, how he wishes it is just temporary.

It's still early in the morning, John gathers, as he walks from the bedroom to the tiny kitchen and the only window in the cottage (despite the fantastic view of the Alps just out his window). Mycroft claims that the windowless cottage is for his protection.

Protection from whom? Everyone thinks that John Watson, reliable, ex-army doctor, is dead.

John tries to dispel the bitterness within him but that will always be a losing battle. He shivers slightly as he goes about making tea, the only thing he has done really in the last month while he is 'hiding'.

That still doesn't mean that it tastes anything but bitter and sour every time he makes it.

_"John."_

The man clutches the granite countertop with white knuckles, peering out the window looking for strength. He would give anything to see that familiar London skyline or even the alleyway from _his_ kitchen window, the one that looks down to the bins. He wishes he could hear the honking and bustling of a busy city. Instead, he is forced with a view of white blankets that mock him with their blandness and the only sounds of the wind to keep him company.

_"John."_

Oh yes, mustn't forget the voice. John lowers his head welcoming the torturous voice that he misses so much. And it really is torture, pure and dilated torture. To hear the man he loves so undoubtedly is like a sticking a hot poker through his heart.

Every time.

And, what makes it so much worse is the knowledge that under any circumstances, he cannot answer the wailings of his name. He can't talk back, no one is to know that he is still alive.

_"John."_

The man doesn't go back to sleep. He stands, looking out the window with tense shoulders and a heavy heart, forcing himself to stay awake. It's the least he can do considering he is the cause of the misery and hopelessness on the other end. The blond cries and cries, while the callings fade in and out over the course of the day until finally, sleep grabs him fitfully.

* * *

_**Two Months** _

"Sherlock, for Christ sake." The ever greying DI yells at his former consultant and tentative friend. His eyes rove around the flat, bulging a bit at the ridiculous mess. Glasses, vials, bottles, trash, clothes, and needles scattered about the floor, eating up the acid-stained carpet beneath.

The older man surveys the mess reproachfully, with an unspoken admiration of how one man can make such a big mess, before landing his gaze upon the former detective, who doesn't even notice his existence, or at least doesn't acknowledge it. The younger man is pale, so pale, with bruises under his eyes such a deep purple they look almost black. The air is stale around him and the DI doubts that there hasn't been any fresh air circulated throughout the flat in weeks. After standing still for minutes, waiting for an answer, a reaction, anything from Sherlcok resembling life, the DI finally decides to do something.

"Sherlock." He says gently walking through the mess towards the small bundle of the man curled into the settee like he is hiding. Lestrade gets closer and with each step tries to stifle gasps that want to escape his lips. The younger man looks far worse close up. He is gaunt and if Greg hadn't stopped to talk to Mrs. Hudson before coming up here he would have assumed that Sherlock hadn't been eating.

The dear old mother hen had informed the DI that she has forced Sherlock to eat and thank god for that. Greg can't imagine what Sherlock would look like if he wasn't practically being force-fed.

Probably dead.

The thought slips into his mind so fast and without preamble that Greg winces violently. Death is what got Sherlock into this situation, to begin with and is the reasoning behind Sherlock's appearance.

As he gets closer to the former detective, Greg plops down on the far side of the couch away from Sherlock, who flinches slightly but enough for the older man to notice.

"I thought we were over this." The DI says softly, angling his body slightly away from Sherlock to be non-threatening.

Sherlock turns his head with a glower aimed at Lestrade with a weak intensity. The older man worries has been ever since he got the call on that fateful day.

"Sherlock, you've got to move on." Lestrade says and realizes at once that those words came out rather wrong.

Sherlock's glower turns into an intense glare and swiftly, far more swiftly than Lestrade would have imagined, the thin man is off the sofa and leaning against the far window.

"Sherlock, that's not. I didn't mean...I don't.." Lestrade stutters trying to explain himself or at least apologize for implying that Sherlock's grief would just go away by moving on.

"Look, you can't keep living like this. The flats a mess and-" Lestrade says gesturing around the room, eyes scanning before looking down at his feet. His eyes catch something that makes him stop mid-sentence. A glass vial has tipped over on the floor, its contents leaking out on the carpet.

It doesn't take a genius to know what Sherlock has been up to and rage implode within the DI.

"Just what the hell are you playing at?!" Greg yells, startling the younger man into looking his way. Greg picks up the nearly empty bottle and hold it up for Sherlock to see.

"This is unacceptable." Greg screams while standing up, intending to march over to the man standing by the window and smacking him upside the head. But Greg stops halfway there, partly because of Sherlock's eyes. They look hollow but Greg can see a shimmer of unbearable grief that is so consuming that Greg needs to look away.

Lestrade changes his tactics. He sighs softly and runs a nervous hand through his hair.

"This can't keep going on." Lestrade starts looking around the room for a place to start while heading to the kitchen.

Sherlock doesn't move other than to turn his face back towards the window. Lestrade knows the grief of losing a loved one, he understands that Sherlock is just coping, however self-destructive it is. The only thing the DI can do is help and try to stray him away from some of the more dangerous coping methods.

"John wouldn't want this." Lestrade calls from the kitchen, having found a trash bag and starting his clean up. He puts endless bottles of vodka and other liquors into the bag with clanking and clinking noises. He finds more needles just laying haphazardly on the countertops and throws them into the black bag more violently than the liquor.

Meanwhile, Sherlock stills stand against the window. "You would know nothing of what John would want," Sherlock says quietly and without venom. His heart aches.

_"John."_

The former detective can hear Lestrade messing around in the kitchen and he can't even make himself care. The thumping and clattering of his month-long mess doesn't even register in Sherlock's awareness.

_"John."_

It is unhealthy and illogical and yet, it's his worse vice of all. He can feel the phantom tugging in his brain constantly and he insists on calling for his doctor, all hours of the day. He hopes with every wailing or soft mutter through the connection that something will change. Once, long ago before Sherlock knew better, he could feel flickers of emotions pass through the phantom connection and he would jump up and down with glee before the reality would crash all around him. Now, when he feels things through the hallucinated connection he knows it's not real. The doctor is dead and Sherlock Holmes is hallucinating. In these occasions, Sherlock doesn't leave their, no, _his_ bedroom for days. His thoughts and memories torturing him as much as the vials of his vices that stare at him temptingly.

A sudden sound behind the genius breaks him out of his reverie.

"Are you even listening to me?" Lestrade voice is angry and loud but Sherlock doesn't turn or even flinch away.

Sherlock is tired, so exhausted. He doesn't care anymore.

"I didn't use them." Sherlock whispers but the DI heard it.

"What are you going on about?" Greg says, not unkindly.

"I wouldn't- John, wouldn't- I-" Sherlock stumbles just as Lestrade had before.

The DI shifts and the clinking of glass makes him realize that Sherlock is talking about the drugs.

"Why?" Greg asks helplessly. Why didn't you use them? Why are they here? Why can't we help you? Sherlock hears these questions being asked from that one little word.

But, he just shakes his head with a disheartened dismissal that doesn't even cause Greg to blink.

"Sherlock!" The DI calls with annoyance and the genius lowers his head before turning to the face the man.

"Why are they here?" Lestrade's voice is quieter, softer even. Sherlock shrugs defensively and turns back to the window.

The former detective is punishing himself. For what? That remains to be seen.

Sherlock notices the rustling of a garbage bag and clinking of glass containers indicating that Lestrade is shifting nervously.

"Go away, Detective Inspector." Sherlock's voice is resigned and defeated. Lestrade is too worried, far more worried now than the years when Sherlock actually was a drug addict.

"Sherlock-" The DI starts moving his body towards the lanky man.

Sherlock suddenly explodes. "GO AWAY!" He shouts while turning to face the DI. His face is red and twisted in angry. "I don't want you here!"

Lestrade backs up slightly. He can rely on his instincts and even anger when dealing with an aggravated Sherlock but this Sherlock is personified guilt, wrapped as thick as a blanket around his body. Lestrade's mind goes blank in helplessness, completely out of his depth, has been since he walked into the flat not ten minutes ago. Lestrade shifts again, this time hesitantly, the former detective is so distant and unstable and really shouldn't be alone.

Sherlock, who is now facing the graying man, lowers his head again. "Just go, Lestrade." The younger man pleads and Lestrade sighs in compliance.

"All right, Sherlock." Greg acquiesces softly before turning towards the landing. "He's worried about you."

Sherlock doesn't move and knows exactly who Lestrade is talking about. He keeps his back slouched and his head down.

"If Mycroft is so worried, he can come himself." Sherlock snaps and rushes past Lestrade with a gust of air, stomping to the bathroom and slamming the door. He seethes in the bathroom as he clambers into the shower, not even bothering to take his clothes off. The front door shuts and the flat is left in silence.

The genius spends the rest of the afternoon in the bathroom. At first, the water is scalding, burning against the genius with intensity. He doesn't even notice when the temperature changes at first. Minutes later, the back of his mind registers the cold that is seeping through his bones, bit by bit. The young man shivers as the water goes from lukewarm to cold in the hour that he sits on the floor of the tub with his knees drawn to his chest and his whole body rocking with despair.

 _"John. I miss you."_ The genius calls pathetically as he grips his clothed, soaked knees to his body.

* * *

_**Six Months After John's Death...** _

There are many regrets that John has in his life and he can safely say that most of the major ones have occurred in the last six months of his life. The biggest regret being the most self-explanatory. Leaving Sherlock, lying to Sherlock, making Sherlock believe him dead.

However, at this moment, there is a regret that John just can't stop thinking about. He regrets not testing the distance of their connection before now.

This headache could possibly be killing him, not that John would mind some peace right about now. Between Mycroft ridiculous relocations so that John can remain a secret and having a second person in his head 24/7, John hasn't slept through the night in all these months.

The headache seems to ache more intensely as John rises from his (temporary) bed in Italy, sighing with exhaustion. He was half asleep when Mycroft came storming into his Indian safe house, (why India, John will never know) and dragged the doctor across the continent to somewhere along the outskirts of Rome.

_"John."_

There are constant declarations of love and voices throughout the day, multiple times a day and Sherlock's thoughts have become more than routine for John. He doesn't (can't) sleep anymore. With every thought of Sherlock's being pushed, it's hard to close one's eyes.

Not to mention that the white noise, it's consistent and makes John want to tear his bloody hair out.

And Mycroft stole his MP3 player so there is no chance of blocking it out.

The doctor trudges through the safe house with tired steps. He's never been more tired in his life before now, he also hasn't cried more or made this much tea before.

_"John."_

The blonde man sighs heavily and goes about making tea.

The worst part about the whole thing, is that he doesn't blame the genius. He could never fault the man for his grieving.

But it's all becoming too much. John is so close to snapping and opening the link between them, telling the detective that he is alive.

He can't do it. It would destroy everything that has happened in the past six months. Now that Mycroft has finally decided to share some of his plans with John, they've actually snuffed some of Moriarty's web. Telling Sherlock now, would dismantled everything Mycroft and John have prepared, everything John has sacrificed. Especially now that they are so close.

It would be counterproductive and selfish and all because he can't bear the torture and the agony of the baritone's communications and proclamations of love.

 _"Get a hold of yourself, Watson."_ He chastises himself, shaking his head a bit to clear the gloom. He is close, so bloody close. Revealing himself to Sherlock and in turn, the world would only hinder all the work he has done. He has finally found Moriarty's hiding spot and he will be able to infiltrate and destroy the man. He can't give that up now. He's got the advantage this time.

He is the only person in the world the telepathic criminal mastermind will never _hear_ coming.

_"John."_

The doctor grips the counter with one hand as he sets down his tea in the other.

Sherlock's thoughts are becoming more forlorn and agonizing. John thinks something has changed. The genius's thoughts are just as strong but they are weaker, defeated almost.

He's talked to Mycroft more than once about it but the older Holmes insists that Sherlock is fine and John is worry unnecessarily.

_Unnecessarily._

John wants to punch that man sometimes. Nevertheless, the doctor has to take his word as truth. Oh god, he hopes it's true. He  _needs_ it too be true. He hopes that Sherlock is okay because if he isn't this would be for naught.

The desperate pleadings and musings of Sherlock that get sent across the connection only enhance John's apprehension, and Sherlock's frequency adds more stress and concern onto John's day to day. 

That's why John knows the politician is lying but the blogger sort of revels in the falsified truth, the only reprieve he gets from his guilt these days. He just has to hope that Sherlock will be able to hold together until John gets back.

 _"It won't be long now, Sherlock."_ The doctor thinks to himself before placing the mug into the tiny sink.

The doctor moves to his tiny cottage window (what's with the universal safe house one window minimum anyways) looking out into this foreign country.

_"John. I miss you."_

_"John. How can you do this to me?"_

__"John. Why did you leave me?"_ _

John sighs moving back to his suitcase and grabs the clothes that he needs for the day.

Today is the day, they have finally found where Moriarty is hiding and John's planning an ambush.

All John has to do is follow the blood.

* * *

An hour and a half later, John sits in an unmarked black car that screams Mycroft all over. The blonde man shifts restlessly on the black leather seat as he watches a small jet land on the tarmac.

He didn't even know that Mycroft was in Italy, let alone be present for this endeavor.  

John knows the politician despises legwork. If it wasn't the main source of complaint that Sherlock would talk about regarding his brother, the blogger would have seen the disgust in the man's own head. In fact, the rare times that John has read Mycroft there had been one or two thoughts about legwork and the delegation of duties to his employees.

So, the fact that he is here at all has sent John into a small panic for the entirety of the forty-five-minute car ride.

Paranoia and general worry are starting to set John's teeth on edge.

_"John."_

And there's also that, which isn't helping.

The jet lands little ways away from the car and the doctor is watching with a bland eagerness to see Mycroft. He sends out a tendril of his gift, trying to find out exactly why the older man is here. Unfortunately, Mycroft has learned a few tricks since John has 'died' because all John gets from the man is endless jibberish, in German.

Which only frustrates John more.

John scans the driver again, even though he's been doing it routinely since they left the cottage. Mostly to make sure that he isn't being kidnapped but a small part of him wants to know if the driver knows anything.

He doesn't.

John watches with annoyance as the familiar politician walks briskly over to the car, his trusty umbrella pulled tight against his body and a briefcase swaying at his side.

The door opens and the older man climbs gracefully in, motioning to the driver, while John sighs with irritation. They aren't really on the best of terms in general and Mycroft being here is bound to complicate things. Either bureaucratically or emotionally, at least in John's case.

A flare of white noise descends upon John with a sharp vehemence causing the blogger to pinch the bridge of his nose in pain and exasperation. Italy, while vastly different than the Alps, India, and the little shack in France, has caused more problems for John's gift in the short week he's been here. The white noise is almost excruciatingly unbearable. 

He can't help but wonder if its a connection to Moriarty being close or if it's purely coincidence.

John isn't sure if he wants to know.

John tries to push back the white noise to a dull ache in the back of his mind as he turns his head slightly to gaze Mycroft.

The politician, while being instrumental in keeping the doctor hidden and safe, hasn't been in John's physical presence since that day at the hospital. Mycroft looks much the same, but John's isolation and loneliness speaks to the relief the man feels when looking upon the only familiar face in six months.

Plus, Mycroft's cheekbones remind John of certain detective.

John shuts down that thought before it could get free and interfere with what is about to happen.

On the other side of the car, Mycroft is looking at John and assessing the doctor with a silent gaze. Whereas Mycroft hasn't changed, John sure has, emotionally and physically. The months of practically no sleep have taken their strenuous toll on the blonde man. He looks haggard and scruffy despite his almost clean shaven skin. His frame has thinned out emphasizing cheeks that have hallowed and gained a disturbing gauntness to them that makes him look unhealthy. He wears sunglasses, a headache no doubt, Italy must be full of white noise. Mycroft can see the deep purple bruises under his eyes, regardless of the frames covering them.

John looks like death.

Somehow this stray though floats over the connection and John is rapt with sudden attention. However, because of the content, he scowls nastily.

"No shit." He mumbles in reply and tenses, pulling his limbs closer to himself, all the while making himself appear even smaller and weak.

Mycroft lets out a reproachful stare and John waves a hand dismissively and sends feelings of anger, smugness, and disapproval. _"Don't even start."_

For a second, John regrets that he just reverted to the emotional code. He immediately pulls out of the politician and turns away. It has been so long since the doctor has communicated mentally with anyone and it causes more emotional and upheavals than John has time to deal with right now. He needs to focus on Moriarty. He can think of home and London and _Sherlock_ after. Right now, the game is on.

The politician ignores John's crisis and raises his eyes in determined caution as if saying, _"Okay, I'll leave it alone. Just this once."_

John sighs and looks away from the man, just realizing that he hasn't seen him in months and they haven't even exchanged an expression of formalities.

Right on cue, as if sensing John's thoughts, Mycroft speaks conversationally. "Hello, John."

John turns his head slowly towards the voice and it brings up emotions that John has been feeling for the past months. Bitterness is at the forefront and then anger. John was forced into this lie and succeeded in a deep betrayal to his best friend, his lover. For what?

 _"For Moriarty."_ John reminds himself, giving his mind a violent shake. The doctor sighs and stares at the older man.

"I didn't know you were coming down here." The doctor remarks questionably, acidily. He is too tired to care about his rules and really, Mycroft's feelings.

Before he can gather information about why Mycroft decided to come himself, the blogger is interrupted.

_"John."_

_"Fantastic."_ John thinks bitterly, perfect timing, really. John can't help but wince at his own mental tone as he guiltily chastises himself for lashing out at Sherlock. It is not fair of the doctor. He closes his eyes briefly as he tries to reign in his emotions that are getting out of whack.

This exchange doesn't go unnoticed by Mycroft whose lips curl up into a grimace. His face slightly guilt and shameful.

 _"Good."_ John thinks, shooting a quick glance over to the politician. _"It's his fault that I'm here."_

"He's still communicating with you." Mycroft raises an eyebrow with surprise as if he _didn't_ know.

"Bit obvious of a question for you Mycroft." John retorts angrily, putting more blame on Mycroft than on the detective. It's not Sherlock's fault, it has never been. The younger man doesn't know that John is alive or even aware of how much distance the range covers.

The elder Holmes doesn't respond and John turns to look out the window. The mid-morning sun's rays are coating the sky as the sedan travels down deserted roads.

"How is he?" John asks after a few minutes barely able to hold his curiosity.

" _He i_ s fine." Mycroft answers and John snorts with disbelief. John has been the one hearing the detective for the past six months and he is everything but fine.

"He misses you." The elder Holmes adds after a second of contemplation as if John didn't know that either.

John scowls. "I got that much." He spits. John doesn't know all the details but he can feel that Mycroft is holding something back, something he doesn't want John to know. In that moment, John considers the elder Holmes. What would he be lying about? How bad is his detective getting on? Is that why he came himself?

John opens his mouth to inquire more but it is Mycroft who waves a hand dismissively.

"It's almost over, John. You will be seeing him in less than forty-eight hours." Mycroft assures and John backs off. The doctor is too tired to ask more and relishes in the fact that he will be able to hold Sherlock in the next day or two. It is enough to placate the doctor, so he stills and continues the ride in silence.

_"John."_

The doctor sighs.

"Mycroft, this can never happen again," John says firmly, looking at the politician.

"No. No, I don't believe it can." The politician answers and the car continues down the road.

* * *

**Three Days Later...**

This time of year, London is muggy and rainy. The water that falls from the sky is usually hotter than normal and even more uncomfortable. Not that Sherlock would know the temperature at this moment. He can only hear the pitter-patter of droplets hitting the window. He doesn't even bother to look towards the windows, he knows he'll just see streaks of water leaving tracks on the window.

Not that the quiet occupant of 221B Baker Street notices the weather today anyway, he barely registers the month. Days have blurred into long weeks that in turn, blur into months. Nothing measures time, not sleep or other trivial matters. Occasionally the young man will notice a shift in time if he manages to drift off but that is such a rarity that it hardly ever happens.

The former detective stares at the opposite wall. His eyes roam lazily over his mantle. The skull is sitting prominently off to the left. Its gaze had been mocking and in an angry fit, the genius had turned the skull's eyes away.

Sherlock never thought he would grow to hate his skull or even worse, hate Baker Street.

That's what death does, it makes even the strongest succumb to intense hatred.

The genius's mind fills with emotions to such a depth that he can't escape either any of them. Their forms and tendrils capture the former detective with a fierce grip and Sherlock has to bite marks on his tongue as evidence of his resistance to screaming out.

The man sits on his, not theirs, settee with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. The sitting room's windows are actually open thanks to Mrs. Hudson who insisted that Sherlock get away from the dark. The former detective doesn't even register. To him, the room is still dark and gray the colors invisible. The man hasn't had color for the past six months.

"Jesus, John." The man says miserably, trembling slightly. _"Why did you have to leave me?"_

A sudden noise erupts from below and it startles the former detective slightly. He hasn't heard sounds on the steps for a week now. Mrs. Hudson is gone visiting someone Sherlock knows, Sherlock remembers her telling him as she scolded him about the windows. She had left food in the fridge (that Sherlock hasn't touched because he would rather starve to death).

The genius doesn't stir from his gloomy musings when recognises the footsteps belong to Lestrade.

At least he is with it enough to notice that someone is coming. A month before he didn't know Lestrade was there, not until the man aggressively waved a hand in front of Sherlock's face. 

Sherlock doesn't feel in the mood for another drug bust, even though the flat is completely clean. On his way to get more drugs one night he stumbled across an alleyway that _they_ had used in one of the many cases and Sherlock had fled home and retched on the sidewalk beside the steps. He hasn't been out since.

Besides, J-his telepath wouldn't want drugs in the flat anyway, even though resisting that fact has gotten harder and harder every day.

Lestrade's footsteps are hesitant but cheerful and Sherlock is instantly hateful and bitter. The wet noises of rain-slicked shoes bounce up the flat stairs to Sherlock's ears and the younger man turns away from the door in preparation.

If it were a different day, Sherlock may have called out to the DI.

If it were a different week, the genius might have texted Lestrade on the way up the stairs.

If it were a different month, the younger man may have bolted to the door and locked it out of childish spite.

If it was a different life, the former detective may have been glad to see Greg.

Not this day, not this week, and definitely not this life. Sherlock stills and waits. He senses when the DI enters the room, his feet shuffling nervously as he comes to stand right in front of him. The genius doesn't even bother to look up at the Inspector.

"Sherlock," His voice is timid but excited. A frightful combination. Sherlock might have taken the time to deduce the reasoning but the impulse is long gone. It died in that warehouse along with the only person who mattered.

So, the younger man doesn't answer. Instead, he stays sitting on the settee in his own bubble of misery.

"You need to come with me," Lestrade says forcefully but his tone is soft as he sits opposite Sherlock on the coffee table.

The former detective doesn't answer and he doesn't move. Nothing matters to him anymore.

The DI slowly bends his head to catch Sherlock's eyes. When this proves impossible, Lestrade grabs the younger man's chin and makes him look up.

"This is not a request." Lestrade commands and, still, Sherlock doesn't move. His eyes are red and his face is hollow and skinny, much to Lestrade's chagrin.

Sherlock feels a familiar poke in his brain but the genius ignores it. He has been hallucinating that poking for months. It's a phantom poking, regardless of how strong it just felt.

 _"It's not real."_ The detective tells himself as he yanks his face away from the DI, standing up to walk away. 

"Sherlock," Lestrade calls following him as the former detective moves towards the kitchen and away from his memories. Lestrade follows him and stands next to the genius.

The poking doesn't stop and Sherlock grips his temples in irritation. He starts to pace around the room quietly.

Emotions fill his brain and sudden waves of alert optimism and surprise acceptance in which Sherlock translates, _"You should listen to him."_

He stops moving directly in front of Greg. Against the former detective's will, one of his arms shoots out and grab one of Lestrade's shoulder for support. His knees buckle slightly and the DI smiles.

Sherlock's eyes shoot to the older man. This isn't happening.

"I knew he couldn't wait," Lestrade smirks nodding with happiness.

"No." Sherlock's head lowers. "I'm going crazy."

He has finally cracked.

"You are not crazy." Lestrade soothes as he grips Sherlock's good shoulder.

Sherlock's head shoots up and looks into Lestrade's face. What is going on? John is dead. This is a hallucination.

"I don't understand." The genius frowns and lets go of the DI continuing to move out of the kitchen, away from Lestrade and hopefully away from the hallucination.

"I think you know." Lestrade remarks by grabbing one of Sherlock's elbows pulling the younger man towards the stairs.

"No!" Sherlock freaks out suddenly. "This isn't real."

Sherlock's breathing picks up and he yanks his elbow away from Greg. He backs away from the graying man with a look of pain and grief on his face.

John is dead. Sherlock shakes his head and his hands fly to his hair, gripping the curls. John is dead.

"Sherlock-" Lestrade starts calmly, putting his hands up in surrender, moving towards the former detective.

"Jo-He is dead. I watched him die. Moriarty killed him." Sherlock screams as he starts to hyperventilate. Lestrade moves closer and Sherlock snaps. He pushes past the DI and down the hallway into their, _histheirhis_ room. He slams the door behind him and locks it.

"No." Sherlock screams and tries to pull his hair out.

"This isn't real. John is dead." Sherlock yells out in a mantra.

He can hear Lestrade's calls from outside his door but the former detective isn't listening. He can't listen. He is too busy pacing furiously.

John is dead. John is dead. Johnisdead. Sherlock repeats the mantra over and over.

He can't breathe. His lungs won't expand the way he needs it. His vision is blurring and going fuzzy. No. No. Johnisdead.

The genius spent months trying to accept it and now he is told that all of his pain and suffering was for nothing.

Maybe, maybe he isn't. Sherlock feels that small tether of hope.

No. John is dead. He crushes the thought before it can blossom.

Sherlock screams in frustration, fear, longing, renewed grief. His knees buckle and he falls to the floor. Damn Lestrade for making him hope. Sherlock wraps his long arms around his knees, tucking his head against his legs rocking back and forth.

Lestrade's voice ceases and the detective doesn't move. He keeps repeating 'John is dead' over and over, hoping against hope that he isn't going mad.

* * *

John is tapping his fingers against his knees nervously as he waits in the car down the road from his flat, _their_ flat.

He gets to see Sherlock again.

For a while in Italy, John didn't think that it would happen.

Mycroft's steady (and annoying) presence isn't even putting a damper on John's excitement.

John is just shy of a stupid smile regardless. He gets to see Sherlock.

He wouldn't have to wait this long if Mycroft hadn't won the argument about meeting on neutral grounds. John still doesn't understand why but he is just too focused on seeing Sherlock again that he agreed tentatively. It still seems a little suspicious but when has anything Mycroft ever done not be suspicious at one point or another. But, the doctor still feels a bit of anxiety about the plan but decides not to linger on his doubts too long.

John thought they were going to go right to Baker Street, so imagine the doctor's surprise when the roll up to NSY.

John remembers looking at the elder Holmes in confusion but Mycroft had just waved a hand and said that Sherlock wouldn't leave the flat for him, which John actually agreed with.

But that meant one thing, they needed a neutral party.

They had to tell Lestrade.

That situation, in itself, could have gone much worse. John didn't know what to expect from the DI but a sigh of relief and a hug was a surprise.

"John, I'm so glad you are back." Lestrade had said with raw emotion that implied so much more. The doctor tuned into the tone and was about to question it before Mycroft had stepped in with the plan.

And now here John sits, waiting. The plan, originally was to make John wait at the warehouse they were going to drive too but John squashed that adamantly. He couldn't be away from his detective any longer.

It's sheer force of will, (even when he arrived in London and the white noise had immediately ceased so suddenly that John staggered), that he didn't contact Sherlock.

It has been the hardest thing John has ever had to do and he was a soldier who toured in Afghanistan _and_ was forced away from his soul mate, lover, best friend, for six months.

John sighs internally, tired with jet lag, yet his knees can't stop from bouncing with emotion. Fear, guilt, shame, anticipation, anxiety.

_How will Sherlock react?_

_What if Sherlock can't forgive him?_

The doctor tries to physically shake himself away from bad thoughts and questions and hisses as little dull throbs of pain shoot through his body.

Oh yes, that. 

"Your ribs and the knife wound that is barely stitched up is not going to favor you, John, if you continue to be careless." Mycroft deadpans as he raises his eyebrows at the doctor. "Not to mention your concussion that you shouldn't have flown with."

John scoffs at Mycroft condescending mother hen words before leaning back into the car carefully.

"You know those doctors practically cleared my concussion. I stayed overnight and everything. My ribs are wrapped and the stitches are fine, _Mycroft."_ John states. His injuries, truthfully, are not very forgiving at this moment but the end result was definitely worth it.

James Moriarty is dead.

But the ex-soldier didn't escape his clutches without damage.

John pushes those thoughts away, too. He can't worry about that right now. Sherlock is the only thing he has room for in his head right now.

In moments, he will be able to embrace and kiss and touch the detective and that's all John can think about. He can't afford to let his doubts get in the way.

It's been a whole seven minutes since Lestrade had entered the flat and John is humming with anticipation.

Sod it.

John opens the connection tenderly and is immediately hit with such paralyzing grief that John's face droops into a frown.

 _"No..."_ The thoughts are panicked and full of despair. John sees the kitchen through Sherlock's eyes and can't help but feel a bit of longing despite the serious situation. His tea kettle is just right there.

"Gregory just told him." John says out loud to no one in particular but Mycroft answers of course.

"I assume he isn't taking it very well." Mycroft remarks.

 _"John. This isn't real. You are dead."_ John winces at the pure agony and hurt that Sherlock is pushing through the connection.

Grief and despair. Despairandgrief. It's so deep and crippling that John has to try and turn it down on his end. The emotions, never-ending emotions, float through to the doctor and John almost can't take it. After six months of not being able to soothe and communicate and he's had enough.

The connection is practically vibrating with familiarity and John doesn't hesitate.

The doctor sends a wave of optimism, surprise, and acceptance. _"You should listen to him."_

Another flash of grief and panic float through the bond and John resist the urge to cry out due to the vibrancy of the emotions.

_"John is dead."_

John thinks idly for a second. Is this what he expected? Was the doctor expecting this much hurt?

"He's panicking." John comments before closing his eyes. He watches, spellbound, as Sherlock paces furiously and then freaks out. He sees the door to their bedroom slam shut and John's mobile rings.

Surprised and filled with dread, John answers the call.

"He locked himself in the bedroom." The doctor forgoes formalities and already has his hand on the door handle. Mycroft leans forward and places a restraining hand on the doctors.

"Yeah. He freaked out." Lestrade responds with an underlying tone of worry. "I'm going to pick the lock."

"He doesn't believe you." John says with defeat but glaring at the elder Holmes.

_"John is dead. Johnisdead."_

John winces as the stream of thought comes from Sherlock. He barely hears what Lestrade says next.

"I'd say that's an understatement." The DI remarks and John can hear clattering on the other end of the mobile.

"Mycroft, let me go." John hisses with vehemence and rips his hand away from the politician's grip.

"This is not a good idea." Mycroft responds simply but with determination in his eyes.

"He doesn't believe Greg." John says tersely his gaze blinding with barely restrained fury. Why is Mycroft acting this way?

_"John is dead. This isn't real."_

"We need to stick to the plan." The politician says firmly and the doctor scowls.

"The plan has been changed." John is tense and Greg has gone silent on the other side of the phone.

"He is fine." The elder Holmes reassures.

_"John is dead. This isn't real."_

"Mycroft! He is anything but fine and you know it. You've known this whole time." John shouts as it clicks together and Mycroft has the decency to flinch faintly.

In a weird way, Mycroft was, is still trying, to protect John. He knows his brother, and he knows this situation could get out of hand very quickly. 

Either that or Mycroft is trying to save his own ass and knows exactly what John will do once he finds out Sherlock's mental shape.

It could go either way.

"The hell with it." John says acidly. " _Your_ brother needs me." John puts his hand back on the door handle and this time Mycroft doesn't move.

"John." Greg asks on the other side of the phone, trying not to ease drop on the tense conversation. John gets out of the car stiffly, his ribs screaming in protest but he continues anyway, determination blocking everything else out.

He is immediately attacked by the demanding drizzle of rain.

"All right, I'm coming in." John says when he's halfway down the street and then hangs up. He pockets the phone just as he hears the scuttle of Mycroft's Italian leather shoes.

Prat.

The connection is still open between John and his detective. The mantra of, _"John is dead"_ repeated over and over again. He thinks about sending calming thoughts but John hesitates. Sherlock might react even worse when confronted mentally. John just hopes that his physical presence can get Sherlock out of his panic.

The genius is uncharacteristically fragile and John feels an immense wave of guilt crash through him. He shoots a glare toward Mycroft for good measure as he reaches the front door. The rain makes the wood appear darker than normal, he notices as he pushes it open.

What on earth happened? Sherlock is always logical, always brilliant, always detached. The doctor expected him to be skeptical but this is so much more.

_"Johnisdead. Johnisdead."_

These are the ramblings of a broken man.

He confirms one thing as he hurries up the stairs of 221B Baker Street.

Mycroft had been lying when he said that Sherlock was fine.

And John is responsible for breaking him.

* * *

The former detective doesn't move, it feels like hours but he knows it could just as well be minutes passing.

_"John is dead."_

His hearing is only tuned into his breathing, his very shallow breathing. His legs throb slightly but his back twinges with discomfort.

Still, Sherlock stays where he is. Rocking back and forth like the mental patient he is, shivering with grief.

He is hallucinating. It's the only explanation.

_"John is dead. This isn't real."_

These are phantom feelings and they happen all the time. This is nothing new. Sherlock can feel poking at his mind and the detective shakes violently grief encompasses him.

_"John is dead. This isn't real."_

A voice suddenly calls out to Sherlock but the former detective doesn't move. He's heard the voice so many times in his dreams and auditory hallucinations.

_"John is dead. This isn't real."_

"Sherlock, open the door." The hallucination calls softly and Sherlock closes his eyes. The genius watched his blogger, his lover die. John is dead. This isn't real. It can't be real.

"No." Sherlock whispers to himself while bringing his hands to his temples trying to block out this madness.

He is going mad. The younger man can feel it. Maybe he should make his brother lock him up, put him away to be a medicated zombie for the rest of his life. Anything would be better than this torture.

"No." Sherlock thinks to himself. He just needs drugs. They will help, they will definitely help.

Sherlock eyes his floorboard suddenly. Lestrade doesn't look under there and he knows it's still hidden. He has stayed away from it this long but he can't afford to anymore.

The genius's resolve is breaking.

A sudden rush of calm and warmth spread through the former detective and the Sherlock stills.

"I'm imagining this." Sherlock whispers to himself repeatedly as the feeling of calm relaxes him.

Suddenly, his bedroom door bursts open showing a kneeling Lestrade eye level with the lock.

Sherlock grips himself tighter despite the calm and rocks with more violent movements.

"No." The detective shouts trying to scramble away from the door and failing. His eyes are squeezed shut and he loses purchase,  falling onto his back. Sherlock doesn't bother sitting up and instead, curls into himself while shaking with violent tremors.

"Mycroft." The hallucination hisses and Sherlock wishes for death. He can't take it anymore.

"This is your definition of fine?" The apparition continues, his voice scary and angry.

"Stop. Please." The genius whimpers. This isn't worth the torment, life isn't worth the constant tears and hallucinations.

_"John is dead. This isn't real."_

"This is not fine." The voice is exhausted and irate. No one answers the voice, but Sherlock can feel the vibrations of footsteps coming closer.

"Sherlock?" The taunting voice grips Sherlock and forces him into madness.

"No. No. No." The younger man cries but doesn't move. He is too tired and the familiar sensations of calm are tugging at his consciousness.

Another sudden wave of calm hits the detective and Sherlock goes suddenly limp. There are hands on him and the former detective doesn't move. He lets the rough hands maneuver Sherlock into a position that causes the younger man to whimper from familiarity.

His blogger used to like this pose. Sherlock's head is cradled in the apparition's lap, a hand is running through the genius's hair.

"Shush." The voice soothes and Sherlock realises that he is whimpering but he doesn't open his eyes. They remain squeezed shut against the obtrusive hallucination. Why can't he just be left alone?

What does it want?

"Sherlock. I'm here." Sherlock struggles against the grip but the calm is stilling him, trapping him.

_"John is dead. This isn't real."_

"Open your eyes, love." A hand cups the genius's cheek but Sherlock doesn't move, his eyelids remain shut. He can feel the calloused hand stroking his chin slightly but the former detective is frozen in dread, grief, disbelief.

"You aren't real." Sherlock whispers to the hallucination as the tears fall down his face. "You-Jo-He is dead."

"How are you going to prove it unless you open your eyes?" The voice challenges. Sherlock flinches slightly. Logic. Hallucinations aren't meant to be logical. They've never challenged him before, either.

A burst of calm enters his mind again and languidly caresses his entire body and with it, the courage to assess the situation. Feeling a long-lost spark of curiosity and willingness to solve a puzzle, Sherlock opens his eyes.

A gorgeous sapphire hue stares down at him and the genius buckles under the gaze of the beautiful and familiar orbs, almost shutting his eyes against the _realness_ of the gaze.

But he doesn't, Sherlock meets the man's eyes with his emotions all over his face.

"John." Sherlock cries and all self-preservation falls out of the window. This is the most realistic hallucination the former detective has ever had and he is not one to waste materials.

He may be crazy and this may be his breaking point, but what better way to descend into madness.

Sherlock scrambles to find his footing on the floor and clambers into the hallucination that could be the real John's lap.

There are so many things wrong with encouraging this hallucination but for now, all Sherlock can think about is how warm his imagination is and how he could never regret this, not ever.

The former detective huddles into John and grips at his jumper, taking deep breaths and inhaling John's scent.

Arms wrap tightly around Sherlock and the genius shudders. "You aren't real." He whimpers but his grasp grows tighter trying to anchor the hallucination to himself.

"I am." John responds as one of his hands runs a hand through the young man's hair.

"No. No." Sherlock whimpers and sobs. John shushes him and reassures him.

"You are not real." Sherlock shouts and his breathing picks up. "I watched John die. I watched you die." Sherlock is coming to his senses. He knows that John is dead. This is a vivid illusion. He can't afford to be in the comfort of a traumatic situation. He scrambles away but the ghost grips him tighter preventing the thin man from leaving.

Sherlock can't breath. His face is growing pale. He has to get away. He was wrong, Sherlock is going to regret this in the morning with the hallucination is gone and a hole is all that is left. His chest is tightening and his lungs are refusing to work properly.

"Sherlock." The illusion is worried. "You have to breath."

"I-Can't." Sherlock responds as he chokes on the lack of air flow. More waves of calm enter his mind and in that moment, Sherlock starts to realise his hallucinations never had this effect.

Sherlock's dreams were always of the two of them together. Solving cases or spending days in bed never once did a dream involve John's telepathy. In fact, none of his daytime hallucinations ever used to telepathy. It's pure logic and it totally escaped Sherlock's mind.

"You're real." Sherlock says quietly as his calming brain instills his lungs to work again.

"I am." John repeats pushing his hand onto the detective's cheek. The connection is warm and instant and both of the men have missed it.

John digs for memories that are happy. He notices the dark thoughts that surround the genius's head and John resists the urge to cry. Right now, he has to focus on the happy. He digs deep and finds the one memory that they both love. The memory of their first kiss. It was awkward and John thought it was an experiment but it was perfect.

Sherlock smiles sleepily as the calming effect pulls him towards sleep.

"When was the last time you sleep?" The voice-no, not the voice, John-John asks.

"Thursday." Sherlock comments curling himself into the security of the man he thought was dead. Sherlock is angry at least he thinks he is. The calming effect is tampering with his emotions. He will be angry, once he wakes up.

"It is Thursday." John remarks with disbelief. "You haven't slept for a week? Up you go. It's time for bed."

John voice is soft and mellow and Sherlock melts into it. He feels the doctor start to shuffling away but Sherlock grips tighter. No, no don't go. He has lived six months without the doctor, he refuses to go another minute without him.

"We are just moving to the bed." John soothes grabbing the younger man. He pulls Sherlock to his feet and the tall man crashes himself into John's arms.

"You left me." Sherlock says quietly as John leads them both to the mattress. He guides the lanky man onto the bed and lays him down straight.

"I'm sorry." John states and can see the detective getting worked up again. He pushes more calm thoughts into the man hoping it will put him into a slumber.

Sherlock tenses underneath John's hands.

"Don't leave." Sherlock cries and pulls himself closer. "I'm sorry. I'm not mad, I promise. Don't leave."

John's eyes leak as he hears the pleading voice, telling him what he wants to hear. The doctor shakes his head with anguish.

"I'm not leaving ever again. I promise." The doctor says before sending the final wave of calm that finally pulls the detective into a slumber.


	2. Lies That Talk

"Mycroft." John all but growls once he enters the sitting room. He's left Sherlock side for a moment, just to grab some tea and possibly yell at Mycroft, before returning. Always and forever returning.

He finds the politician in the sitting room, his hand clasped tightly around Lestrade, the two of them looking up at John as he enters the room.

"You lied." John whispers incredulously, his mouth a firm, thin line that conveys unhappiness.

"Would it have made any difference, to tell the truth?" The politician's disinterested tone bites back. However, he posture is tense and hesitant. John realizes that Mycroft is slightly afraid.

Not of his abilities, no, Mycroft is afraid of what John thinks of him. 

That can't be right, this is Mycroft. Without any hesitation, John opens up the connection to Mycroft and tries to sort out the fast-paced thought process.

The politician winces noticeably and suddenly his thoughts are in German again. John signs in frustration before speaking.

"It would have made all the difference." John whispers with exasperation, his expression going a tad soft but his eyes remained hard.

Mycroft stands swiftly and looks at John, he sees the restrained hostility and resists the urge to shift nervously. 

They remain in silence, Mycroft's knuckles white, his hands clutching his umbrella while John stands with his arms across his chest.

Lestrade is still seated on the couch, his eyes darting between the two with avid interest.

"This was killing him." John states as his arms flail a little bit with exasperation.

"He's fine, Doctor." Mycroft says stubbornly.

John is irritated, tired, nervous, extremely guilty, and above all angry. In the past six months, there has been nothing but Sherlock's mental declarations across the continent and finding Moriarty. 

"He's broken Mycroft." John says crushed, his own emotions filtering through. He is angry, extremely angry.

"You can fix him, John I trust you." The politician states with sure confidence. Lestrade shifts nervously at the tension in the room but its ignored by both parties.

"I shouldn't have to fix him!" John yells. "This was a mistake. This was killing him. **We** were killing your brother."

John, anger and grief warring for total control within his body, and tears so close to the surface.  Their lie was destroying him. How is John supposed to live through that?

"Dramatics don't suit you, Doctor." Mycroft huffs, his eyes darting in an unusual show of nervousness. John guesses that last statement got to him too.

John is so passed all of the bullshit and theatrics that Mycroft has put on for the past six months that he feels like he is going to snap.

"Dramatics." John gapes in disbelief and anger. Dramatics, huh?

He promised himself a long time ago, back when he made the rules and when he first tormented Mycroft that he wouldn't use negative emotions on people. However, John's a different man now. He's spent the last six months moving across the continent and being slowly driven insane by Sherlock's mental callings. 

John can afford some dramatics right now.

Without a second thought, John finds Mycroft's chocolate and caramel senses and pushes himself into the politician's brain.

"John-" Mycroft starts but is interrupting by the searing pain and grief that is suddenly overtaking his entire body.

"No, this is dramatic." John says without infliction, his eyes cold and hard as he stares at the crumbling form of Mycroft. He isn't doing this for fun and is getting no pleasure out of it. In fact, the doctor is only conveying emotions that Sherlock has been feeling.

Grief. The most prominent emotion in Sherlock and the one that John had picked up on right away. The only feeling that has seemed to stick with the doctor even after the former detective had fallen asleep. Sherlock's dreams are laced with it.

John delves into his own memories. He has far too many to sort through. Memories of countless sleepless nights being barraged by a desperate detective. The blogger brings up those memories willingly and pushes them through the connection. A distinct memory that John uses first is the night before they went after Moriarty. John had awoken only after a half-hour of sleep and proceeded to be immobilized completely by such a deep wave of distress and grief that the blond man couldn't move for an hour. When he finally did move, he just curled up on his side and cried for the remainder of the night until he fell into a fitful sleep.

John decides to share this memory with Mycroft, he pushes it through and the elder Holmes is seconds away from screaming or sobbing. The feeling is so overwhelming and dominant that Mycroft falls to his knees in a grunt of pain.

John only feels pity and a little bit of hatred towards the older man.

"Mycroft?" Lestrade calls suddenly and John remembers Lestrade. John looks up at Greg and sees the stricken look. His eyes are worried and pleading. The sheer emotion in the DI's voice breaks John out of his trance and he suddenly realizes the situation. The telepath removes himself from Mycroft and staggers back. His eyes are puffy and red when he notices that Mycroft is looking up at him.

"What the fuck?" Lestrade says with panic as he kneels down next to his boyfriend. "Are you okay?"

"Yes...Greg." Mycroft pants out, while still holding his gaze with John, neither can seem to look away. John feels a flash of fear but he isn't sure if it's from Mycroft, Greg or himself.

"What the fuck?" Greg repeats, glaring at the doctor. "Just because you-"

"Get out." John says abruptly. He can't stand to look at the elder Holmes, at what he has done. _"_

 _Why is it that Mycroft always brings out the worst in me?"_ John asks himself as a bewildered Lestrade stares at him.

"John-" Mycroft tries to say but John can't, no, doesn't want to hear it.

"Leave." The doctor says turning his back and heading for the kitchen. His thoughts are screaming. He broke one of his rules, John lost his temper (again), and broke the rules. He cannot deal with a broken Sherlock and an uncaring Holmes at the same time.

"Mycroft. I will regret this later but right now I'm too angry to care. You need to leave. Both of you. I have to fix this." John rambles off from the kitchen when he doesn't hear movement from the sitting room. He peeks his head out from the kitchen.

He sees the politician get to his feet shakily, gripping Lestrade for support. Mycroft's face is pale and eyes hollowed, the after-effects of an emotional exchange. John will attempt to feel sorry for the politiican later.

Now, Greg hooks an arm around Mycroft's waist and ushers them to the door silently. They don't look at John or acknowledge their departure. John just walks to the window while the kettle is going.

There is a sudden intrusion in his mind and John, at first, resist it but it suddenly becomes strangely overbearing. It's like someone is clearing their throat in his mind, trying to get his attention.

 _"You are under the assumption that I don't care, John."_ Mycroft's voice whispers with an unusual resignation through the connection. And because he is alone, John huffs.

 _"That is not the case. It has never been the case."_ The politician adds, _"Moriarty would've continued to go after my brother. I did the only thing I could think of to protect him."_

John hears the front door shut and he sees the two men walk into the sedan that just pulled up. _"Think about that Doctor."_

Then the sounds are gone and John is left in the silence of the flat.

The doctor turns with a shaky sigh as the kettle finishes. He makes his tea and heads back towards the bedroom. He has to fix the broken man that they, no, that _he_ left.

Even though John lashed out at Mycroft the truth is, it's all the doctor's fault. John knows this and he can't get around it. He should have said no to the politician or at least fought harder. They could have brought the genius along. Anything, anything would have been better than this. Sherlock is now a shell of the person he used to be, he pleads and begs.

He was never meant to be this way.

* * *

Sherlock bolts awake, the sheets twisted around his frame. His eyes shoot open with such a panicked ease that the former detective has to remind himself to breathe and remember why he is in such a state. His, not their, bedroom wall stares back at him.

He is lying on his bed covered in sweat and crumpled sheets, alone, while a sob crawls up his throat.

 _"Terrifying dream then,"_ The genius thinks despairingly to himself before sitting up painfully. His muscles are stiff but his head is clear.

_How long had he been sleeping?_

He resists the urge to just lie back down and curl into a ball. For one thing, his clothes lay uncomfortably against his skin. He stands up with shaky legs and strips his clothing before putting on fresh ones. The jumper he had been wearing, John's navy blue one that still holds a bit of the doctor's smell. At least did until Sherlock's sweat and fevered dreams ruined it. He shakily walks to the cabinet and picks out another jumper, the last one with John's scent attached. Sherlock puts the wine-red jumper to his nose and inhales before pulling it over his head and smoothing it down over his chest and lithe frame. He turns around to stare at the empty and lonely room and stops suddenly.

_How did he get to the bedroom?_

Sherlock searches his mind for memories but nothing eventful comes up. He remembers being in the sitting room for the past three days, or he thinks it was only three days, with unmoving intentions and then Lestrade came over and -

_"John."_

_"John."_

_"John."_

Sherlock's head snaps up with force and he bolts out of the bedroom. He runs into the sitting room, skidding to a stop to look for any evidence that what he remembers is a reality.

The area is just as empty and messy as it always has been. His eyes scan the space regardless, looking for irregularities or evidence of another human being. He looks but finds nothing, nothing other than Mrs. Hudson's usual dusting. Sherlock walks further into the room, tears already threatening to spill. He stands in the middle of the room, his arms around his chest, hugging himself silently.

He lets the grief course through him.

Sherlock tries really hard to resist the urge to scream, to cry, to injure.

He somewhat notices the sudden sound of the steps but he doesn't fully register who they belong to. The former detective just stands there, completely numb.

Warm limbs wrap around his torso from behind. He immediately recognizes that embrace, he would never forget the feeling of those strong arms. He knows who is responsible for this comforting gesture.

He would have turned hesitantly, but his mind had other ideas. His body whips around fast while still maintaining the embrace.

"John." Sherlock gasps out as he comes face to face with his hopes and dreams. He pushes himself into the broad chest and lowers his head, as if he couldn't possibly keep it up anymore, onto John's shoulder. He nuzzles his way in between John shoulder and neck. His hands find there way up, sliding up John's chest until they reach his neck and his cheek respectively. His right-hand tugs at the slight curls at the bottom of John's neck while Sherlock sobs in relief, his tears causing wet streaks all over John's clothes and upper body.

"I thought you weren't real. I thought I made the whole thing up. I woke up and you weren't there." Sherlock rambles with a cry. John's arms squeeze tight and one of his hands rub Sherlock's thin back. He holds on while he murmurs soothing words into Sherlock's ear.

"I thought you were dead. John. I thought-" Sherlock chokes as his breath hitches.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I would've been here, I wanted to be here, but Mrs. Hudson came up and saw me. I had to help her back downstairs." John says holding the younger man, his own tears falling.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." John repeats with guilt. 

"You are really here." Sherlock says with relief. In that moment, Sherlock realises the most important factor. John Watson is positive, without a doubt alive. Even though the pain and the agony Sherlock can see the man's features. He would never be able to hallucinate such detail.

_"This isn't a hallucination."_

John shakes his head and sends a rush of unhappiness and determination. _"No. I'm really here."_

"Oh god, Sherlock. I missed you so much." John sniffs pushing his face into Sherlock. "I'm so sorry. God. I'm sorry." The doctor repeats over and over.

"I didn't know. I didn't realise-" John starts but Sherlock's lips on his own interrupt him.

The kiss is hesitant as if Sherlock is afraid to shatter an illusion and John's heart breaks at the thought.

He pushes back for a bit of air before mashing their lips together in a frenzy of maddening longing and need.

They kiss for a long time, eventually having to relocate to the settee for both of their legs buckle multiple times with relief and happiness.

Finally, John pulls away and just stares into the liquid smoke that has taunted his dreams for the past months. They lay on the couch, John tucked behind the former detective with his back against the cushions. One of his hands is resting comfortably on Sherlock's hip and the genius's fingers are intertwined, holding the doctor tight.

 _"You are really here."_ Sherlock pushes through the tactile connection and a brief flash of fear and panic run through John's mind. It is gone before the doctor can find out what dark part of Sherlock's mind the thought came from.

"Yes," John chokes out with a shy grimace.

Sherlock looks back with an equally shy and hesitant frown.

Rage suddenly courses through. His own temper yelling at him and telling him that it's his fault, his and Mycroft. They should not have lied. They should not have broken the strongly willed genius.

Sherlock is never shy about anything in his life.

It is all John's fault.

The last six months were completely unnecessary in comparison.

"I'm sorry." John blurts out and presses his face into Sherlock's shoulder, inhaling the detective's scent. "I didn't want to...Mycroft said...I'm sorry." John mumbles incoherently and Sherlock goes tense under his grip.

Before John can register the shift in positions, the former detective is up and walking away from the doctor's grip. The doctor sits up with sudden movements and regrets it instantly. Despite temporarily forgetting his healing ribs (and stab wound), they protest his movements. 

Once the pain dies down, John watches with rejection and hurt as the man walks away from him and toward the kitchen. It's then that John notices Sherlock's attire. A dark red jumper hangs off his thin frame, causing John to grimace sadly. Watching Sherlock walk away hurts the doctor more than expected and he hangs his head in shame. 

He deserves this rejection. He should just take his punishment.

Minutes pass and John wallows in self-misery all the while wondering what Sherlock is doing in there. He hears angry clattering and the occasional dish moving about with aborted movements. He thinks about getting up, going to Sherlock but John can't seem to move. Partly his guilt, and partly his ribs.

Eventually, John can't resist the curiosity anymore, despite the aching in his torso.

"Sherlock?" John asks timidly and stands up carefully, yet shakily while running a hand through his growing hair. Without hesitation, the doctor opens the connection but gets nothing when he realises that Sherlock has put up his mental barriers. 

Add mental shields at home to the list of punishments John must get use to.

John follows the consulting detective into the kitchen where Sherlock clambers about making tea and the soldier watches in amazement.

Since when did Sherlock make tea on his own?

"I don't need your pity, John." Sherlock spits out suddenly and taking the doctor by surprise. The former detective is bitter and his movements are jerky and angry.

What changed? They were snogging only a minute ago.

 _"Well, what did you think, Watson. That it would be all butterflies and roses."_ He scolds himself.

When John thinks about it, it is not all that surprising. Sherlock is angry and he has every right to be. John 'died' and it screwed with the genius's emotions. Feelings that the former detective didn't like to acknowledge anyway.

Its what he is being punished for, isn't it?

"Sherlock-" John begins before being cut off but a mug shattering with harsh noises against the counter. Bits of ceramic fly everywhere and John flinches despite his army training. A sharp exhale involuntarily leaves John's mouth and that was a bad move. Once he's calmed Sherlock down, he's going to have to wrap his ribs once more.

He looks at the younger man and sees the hunched, trembling shoulders as Sherlock grips the counter with white knuckles.

"You left me, John." Sherlock baritone is quiet and vulnerable, a direct correlation to his shaking form. 

What does he do? He wants to go to the man and hug him and tell that he missed him. So he doesn't restrain himself. John moves towards the detective with calculated steps.

Before John can get close, Sherlock whips his head around and stares with vehemence.

_"Don't."_

John stops when he hears the harsh tone in his head.

"I'm so-" John starts again but Sherlock throws his hands up and scurries past John's advancing form.

"Stop." Sherlock yells out as he walks into the living room. John, naturally, follows.

The detective is moving about the sitting room with extreme paces. He moves around the furniture and the piles of papers, not once coming close enough to the doctor.

John watches in horror and exasperation. The former detective is working through so many emotions and John's presence isn't helping. For a split second, John thinks about leaving.

He pushes that thought away with so much anger and shame that he wants to slap himself for thinking it originally.

This is his penance.

_"You left me."_

_"He left me."_

_"He left me."_

_"He promised he wouldn't leave me"_

John can hear the thoughts escape Sherlock's troubled mind and the doctor stares in guilt. The green-eyed monster is twisting his insides so violently, John is afraid he is going to spontaneously combust.

_"He left me."_

"I didn't have a choice!" John exclaims softly, trying desperately to get near the genius but Sherlock keeps moving around the flat in an attempt to avoid John's touch. 

Sherlock continues to moves in circles around the sitting room, purposefully pacing away from the doctor. After a while, John's injuries consume him and with a sigh, the doctor moves shakily to the sofa.  He sits slowly, lowering himself gently, all the while unaware of eyes following his every move.

His ribs protest and the doctor winces as he finally lands amongst the cushions. The stitches in his side ache uncomfortably and he's due for another dose of painkillers for his concussion. As for his cracked ribs, he can't wait for those to heal completely, utter nuisance those are. His injuries are becoming known more and more steadily since John's adrenaline from the past twenty-four hours is wearing off. He subconsciously puts a hand on his side, grunting quietly in pain. The grunt echoes through the recently silent room. Immediately, he realises his mistake, he should have stayed standing.

He looks up to see Sherlock standing still by the mantle. The former detective eyeing John for the last few moments. For a second, John is extremely relieved that Sherlock's skills (however dormant) are still there, but then the man's eyes narrow with suspicion.

Funny that, the first mystery that Sherlock deduces in six months is about John.

John winces through the pain, knowing full well he had not been quiet. He doesn't meet Sherlock's eyes and mostly because his own eyes are squeezed shut. He should have got some pain pills when he was up.

 _"You are hurt."_ The former detective's thought is quiet and hesitant but when John looks up Sherlock's face is still angry and a little bit smug.

John smiles weakly before sending a wave of happiness and then contentment. _"Yes, but I'm fine now."_

 _"John."_ Sherlock's facial features go blank and he plops down into his chair away from John. The doctor looks at the man in front of him. His weight is alarming low and his face seems hollow.

This is all his fault.

"I'm so sorry. This is all my fault." John says again, softly and with defeat. He tries to shift forward to convey his contriteness but winces at the slight pain shooting up his body. 

_"What happened?"_

_"Why?"_

Why? Why indeed.

John sends a wave of fear and irritation through the link. It teases on the outskirts of Sherlock's mental barriers but the genius feels it.

_"Moriarty."_

John nods his head glumly and sends another wave of shame, guilt, and regret. _"I'm sorry."_

_"Where have you been?"_

John looks up and sees Sherlock's face. It's suddenly devoid of emotion and instead, a blankness stares back at the doctor. Sherlock radiates cold logic and the older man shivers with sadness.

A very distant thought, in the very back of John's mind, registers Sherlock behavior, his _usual_ behavior that he seems to be exhibiting right now. There may be hope.

"I had to leave." John starts, repeating the words Mycroft had told him. "There would have never been another opportunity to take him down."

Sherlock nods solemnly but doesn't say anything.

"I got him." John says awkwardly after a few minutes of silence. Sherlock cast a scan over John's body before meeting the doctor's eyes.

_"Tell me."_

"Sherlock-" John says hesitatingly. The genius doesn't really need the details.

"John. You died. You owe me the location of where you have been for the past six months." Sherlock says angrily and John flinches.

John reluctantly sends a wave of happiness and resignation. _"Yes, okay."_

* * *

Minutes of silence echo throughout the sitting room. Sherlock sitting in his chair watching the blonde man's unseeing gaze. The former detective waits patiently, his legs crossed and his shoulders tense with pain and anger.

The doctor leans back into the cushions, wincing a little bit but otherwise barely registers the pain. His mind is going through the last six months. The constant moving and safe house, some away from civilization, others in the heart of populations that would make his brain hurt with endless white noise.

His mind whirs very quickly, from Switzerland to Italy, from the first day in the hospital being told by Mycroft to play dead, to actually taking part in Moriarty's death.

All of the thoughts and memories course through John and he can't find a place to start.  

"I wanted to tell you." John says quietly, "From day one, I wanted to tell you."  i

The former detective huffs, a very quiet noise, but doesn't say anything.

Regardless, John is grateful he doesn't interrupt. Maybe he can't get this all done in one long monologue.

"I couldn't." John whispers, admitting his shame. "Mycroft- We had to make you think it was real. You are the only one who could convince Moriarty." John admits sheepishly as he wrings his hands together.

 _"Obviously."_ Sherlock's thought is bitter but there is a hint of his 'you're-an-idiot" tone that he would use affectionately before six months ago.

Even though he deserves it, John flinches internally at the hostile voice.

 _"God."_ John exclaims internally. _" **When** did this get so messed up?"_ The doctor runs a hand over his weary face, exhaling silently.

 _"When you left."_ The baritone says in John's mind and this time the doctor flinches physically, like a slap.

He is going to grow old sighing the way he is today.

In that moment, John has a sudden urge to find Sherlock's eyes. To see the stormy gray that always enraptured the blonde man, acted as a compass for his emotions. Or at least, they use to, now John doesn't know what is going to happen and honestly, that thought scares him.

He is fully aware that Sherlock could throw him out, although considering he hasn't yet, John is rather hopeful. However, if anything, the detective, former detective, is maniac by trade.

John's own shame prevents him from finding those eyes, his compass. Guilt, longing, and self-loathing runs throughout John's body. His mind screaming at him, telling him how much of a coward he is being. The soldier part of John is telling him to man up.

With a resigned thought, John looks up in the genius's examining gaze. He shifts uncomfortably under the liquid smoke but doesn't dare allow himself to get comfortable. He deserves everything that Sherlock throws his way.

Everything.

Sherlock's hands are resting in his lap, his face blanks but his eyes searching with hard scrutiny, silently waiting for John to continue.

The doctor sighs and opens his mouth again.

"It started back at the warehouse." John begins, taking a millisecond to remember the blood and the pain. The seemingly endless torture that Moriarty's touch caused. John shivers. "Moriarty wasn't what we thought." John says, trying to not get lost in the memories. Trying to tell himself that we will never feel like that again. He will never have the blood stain his mental connections. Moriarty is dead.

He's dead.

"We thought he was like me but weaker." John intertwines his fingers in his discomfort, willing the flashes of memory to go away.

"We were wrong. So very wrong." John struggles to say. He can still feel the fingertips of the criminal mastermind on his forehead and John subconsciously wipes a hand across his brow in an attempt to get rid of the phantom sensation.

"When he had me, in that warehouse, he showed me things." John pauses for a moment, trying to swallow the hardened lump in his throat. He feels like blood could bubble up and swallow him whole. He closes his eyes briefly and counts to ten. With each breath, his mini-panic attack fades exponentially and the sitting room's familiarity surrounds the doctor.

He breaths through the remembered altered memories that Moriarty would force on him. John can recall them all, in vivid detail, mostly because he dreams about them every night, well on the nights that he is able to sleep. The pictures of Sherlock drowning in his own blood, bubbling up and staining the carpet. He can recall the bullet wound in Sherlock's forehead, the little droplet of blood sliding down the pale face.

John leans forward slightly, aware of his injuries and hangs his head. He forces himself to breath slower, trying to control his reactions. He knows he can't stop them. They continue to come, they always continue to come.

 _"I saw them."_ The thought is quiet and it startles John a little, enough to push the memories aside for now.

His head slowly rises in question. He stares at the man sitting across from him. It's Sherlock's turn to be lost in memories. The former detective's eyes are in an unseeing gaze. There are parts of John's brain that are automatic, leaving his mind to be slow in processing. He doesn't think, he just stands and crosses the sitting room before kneeling at Sherlock's side. His hand found the pale thin fingers that fit so perfectly within his own grip.

John feels a hardening grip in return and silently revels in the lack of rejection before being overpowered by his gift.

The heat and power of the tactile connection hit John with such force, the doctor is reeling. 

The doctor doesn't have to wait long until Sherlock's memories are floating through the bond, uncaring of mental shields at this point.

Between the onslaught of senses and memories, John feels an overwhelming feeling of relief and longing. A feeling that is mirrored in John's own subconscious. It doesn't take a telepath to know that Sherlock missed the warmth and the familiarity of sharing a mind with someone.

John missed it too.

Three seconds later, the feelings of relief are being pushed back and John is assaulted with memories from Sherlock. He is forced to close his eyes against the fragments that float across his mind. Images and the smell of blood are echoed within Sherlock's mind as well and a crushing feeling of remorse reverberates within John. Flashes of Sherlock's immeasurable pain along with Mycroft's worried expression mix with the flashes of pictures going through the connection.

John is horrified.

John yanks his hand out of Sherlock's grip, gasping with fright. He moves away, his fear and regret propelling him away. He turns his back on the former detective. His instincts frayed and telling him all sorts of things. That he should run, that he is dangerous. His mind is a danger. He should run.

_"John."_

He clamps down most of those thoughts as suddenly as they come. He won't run. He can't run. John turns around, looking at Sherlock, his face twisting in so many emotions.

He sends shame and guilt across the mental link repeatedly. _"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."_

_"John."_

Liquid smoke meets blue orbs but John doesn't continue to look. He turns and settles back on the sofa.

_"John."_

The doctor looks up in despair, afraid of what he will see when he looks into those eyes. He watches as Sherlock begins to open his mouth and John suddenly doesn't want to hear what the genius will say, his fear propelling his mouth to move.

"How did you see them?" John asks in a rush, his eyes darting and his face twisted in remorse.

Sherlock opens his mouth to answer, before closing it again. He repeats this motion, looking like a fish, before sighing. "I don't know." He starts quietly and John tenses.

"That..." Sherlock starts and John can tell he is struggling, "...day, I was connected with you. Unintentionally I think. I saw...I felt most of it." Sherlock finishes hesitantly, the first sign of an emotion that wasn't pain, grief or anger.

Almost as if Sherlock is trying to protect John against his own nightmares.

That doesn't stop John from feeling even guiltier for his own lack of control that day. The doctor is frozen where he sits, the torture and feelings from that fateful day pulse in the forefront of his brain briefly as if to reinforce their existence.

It's one thing that John had to live through it and now he finds out that Sherlock lived through it too, was forced to live through it because he couldn't shut the connection down.

It's almost too much to bear, the guilt of forcing his pain on Sherlock, the shame at being weak and not able to stand up to Moriarty.

The fear that his gift is becoming a danger.

Their range, even all the way in India, is seemingly immeasurable and now John is able to project into Sherlock's brain. 

_"John."_

How did this become so difficult? His gift used to be easy and now he is able to push thoughts onto other people. How? Why?

_"John."_

How was Sherlock able to see things that John saw? How did they not know before? Is it only under extreme emotions like pain and suffering?

_"John."_

What if he gets worse? What if he starts projecting his gift to others? What if he is getting weaker against his moral standings?

_"John."_

"What?" John sighs dejectedly, snapping to attention. He feels like he is going to suffocate underneath all the guilt, shameful of the knowledge that Sherlock has had to deal with this continuous pain despite John trying to protect him all those months ago.

He lifts his head lethargically to look at Sherlock.

 _"Continue?"_ Sherlock probes, his face so unswervingly soft that John feels another twinge of remorse.

John clears his throat and continues to talk, this time with resignation and slight defeat in his tone. The emotions and feelings weighing against his willpower.

"I fought with Moriarty a bit, able to get free from the chair despite, the ah, pain. It's kind of hazy but I rushed Moriarty and Moran shot me, I think." John states, fiddling with his hands while staring into the distance behind Sherlock.

He feels the mental connection fade a little bit, growing stiff with exhaustion, anger, and hurt. Sherlock is reliving his memories just as much as John is.

Still, all the while trying to protect John's feelings. John latches on to the fading connection with desperation, not wanting it to leave and looking for reassurance as his own memories threaten to swallow him.

John hurriedly resumes before Sherlock closes off altogether.

"The next thing I know," John gulps, "I'm in a hospital and Mycroft's standing over me saying that I'm dead. I'm dead and you can never know."

That memory, being told to lie to Sherlock, makes his heart ache and John resist the tears that threaten to fall.

Sherlock stiffens but John continues, fighting through his own emotions.

"I was angry." John says, wincing as a little bit of his temper comes out of his voice. "So angry. Angry at Moriarty, at falling to his whims, falling into his trap. Letting him torture me." John says the last bit quietly before moving on hurriedly, hoping to push the thoughts of torture away before they hinder his momentum. "I was angry that Mycroft intervened like he always does. I was angry that we were lying to everyone. To Mrs. Hudson, to Harry, to _you_."

"And he told me I couldn't mentally contact you and it was so bloody hard." John's voice breaks at the last admission. Countless, sleepless nights flash through his mind. His own despair and loneliness and guilt keeping him awake, away from the nightmares. Waiting for Sherlock to call for him even though the former detective's voice would be equally as sad and distressed.

"I thought about it." John says out loud not really to Sherlock in particular. "All the time, I thought.." John swallows another lump in his throat.

He limbs shake with disjointed passion as the doctor continues. "He manipulated me, Sherlock." John states matter of fact. Not that he is necessarily putting all the blame on the elder Holmes but Mycroft does deserve a fair share.

He senses a tiny ripple through the connection causing John to look over at the younger man. Rage is vibrating through the connection and John winces at the force of it.

 _"Mycroft did this!_ " The thought screams inside John's head and the doctor shakes slightly from the immediate pain. A sharp throb pokes at his brain and the doctor lifts a hand to his head, rubbing faintly.

"I'm sorry." John says quietly when the genius bolts upright and starts pacing around the room with forceful steps. Each footfall grounded into the carpet with rage and betrayal.

They don't talk for several minutes, Sherlock's mad pacing, rage and other emotions flowing through the connection at rapid-fire speed sending John's brain into a frenzy. Meanwhile, John is trying to dispel the inevitable headache brewing in his head. He isn't very successful, guilt and shame are pelting at his conscience, derailing any sort of relief.

A few more minutes pass of more pacing and soothing mind hurts, John doesn't notice when Sherlock stops pacing and comes to sit on the coffee table right in front of John, whose head is resting against the back of the cushion, his face towards the ceiling.

John senses the other body but doesn't move right away. This is the closest they've been since they started the conversation.

John opens one eye slightly and looks towards the brunette. A fleeting expression flashes briefly on the gaunt face and John opens his other eye to look at Sherlock fully. However, by the time John has moved his head down slightly, the expression is gone and the doctor can't place it.

The mental link hums but it offers no solutions either.

"I couldn't-" John tries to say but Sherlock holds up a hand to stop him.

John opens his mouth again, he has to explain, he wants, no needs, Sherlock to understand, but before he can say anything Sherlock speaks a tight command.

"Continue."

John doesn't want to continue, he wants to just hold Sherlock, a feat that he has been deprived of for the past months.

But, he promised, and Sherlock does have a right to know.

So, John continues the retelling of his life these past months.

"Mycroft sent me to Switzerland first. He walked into my hospital room in London and declared I was being moved and within the hour I was on a plane." John states, looking at his hands resting in his lap. "I barely remember it other than the cold." John recalls the nights where he would shiver in loss and cold, listening to Sherlock's thoughts even though they tore at him. "

I was moved to a safe house in the Alps, miles, and miles away from civilization. There was no one around, the only company I had was snow. Mycroft had intel that Moriarty was hiding there but, it turns out, Moriarty had already left by the time I had gotten there." John rambles, looking up.

He had forgotten that Sherlock had moved. Now the genius is less than a foot away. His proximity sends a bout of anxiety through John causing the doctor to lean back against the cushions trying to create space. His shame preventing him from just reaching out and touching the younger Holmes.

"We didn't leave the country right away." John continues, "I had developed a fever from the gunshot wound and the Swish doctors refused to let them move me." John says with a certain vulnerability.

He shudders at the memories of that clinical hospital with barely friendly staff and not one English speaking person, including his bodyguard.

"I don't remember any of it." John lies confidently.

He remembers it all. He remembers overhearing the angry phone calls from Mycroft, the politician's smooth voice hardened with anger. He remembers the bodyguard that was situated outside his door. He shudders at the memories of that clinical hospital with unfriendly staff and not one English speaking person among them, including his bodyguard. John remembers. The burning of his skin and the constant hallucinations and nightmares. The hospital had to put John in his own ward because of the screaming and the writhing. He remembers yelling and calling for Sherlock every minute.

It didn't help that the former detective would answer back sometimes and John would fret that he gave away the entire lie.

But, Sherlock can't know any of that. He can't know about the horrendous time in the hospital and the great relief John felt when he was finally able to be moved to another safe house after a week.

There doesn't need to be any more emotional stress forced on the younger man.

John winces at the memories but blocks any feelings from traveling over the connection. Sherlock doesn't need to know.

John just figures it's another thing to blame Mycroft for. If he wasn't rushed out of London, he would have less chance of infection. Not to mention being left on his own in the middle of snowy mountains. He is lucky that the man who came to take him to another safe house arrived on the day he did, otherwise John would have most likely died on the floor of the kitchen like the weakling he was.

John shudders a sigh and lifts his eyes up to meet Sherlock.

The former detective's eyes are narrowed and examining. John tries to make himself smaller, debating whether to send calming thoughts through the link.

But before he can commit to the thought, Sherlock interrupts him.

_"You could hear me."_

John looks up, gaping, wondering with sadden eyes how the man figured that one out.

Before he can confirm or more likely deny, Sherlock had deduced his answer.

"All the time?" Sherlock asks out loud with such a quiet softness that John does a double take, looking at his blank expression.

"All the time." John replies, not even bothering to hide anymore. He lowers his head slightly in submission.

Sherlock's eyes are alight and John resists the urge to smile affectionately. The look is so much like before John left before John died.

_"I felt you. I thought I was hallucinating."_

The thought startles John into gazing at Sherlock. The doctor sighs despondently.

Despite all those efforts, despite forcing himself not to respond, never to respond, he did anyway. He had opened the connection, regardless of his efforts, and unknowingly pushed emotions of his own grief and despair at his lover.

This thought crushes John more than anything else.

"How many times?" John forces himself to ask, out of curiosity and out of the need for self-flagellation. Part of him doesn't want to know about his failure.

 _"I didn't keep count."_ Sherlock's thoughts are soft and hesitant.

Part of John senses that the genius is lying, but doesn't say anything.

"And you still thought I was...gone?" John asks against his better judgment, wincing slightly.

_"I saw your body. I didn't have evidence to suggest otherwise."_

The thought is dripping with acid but despite that, John is warmed by the Sherlockian aspect of the sentence.

John leans forward slightly as the two just stare at each other for minutes. An unspoken occurrence happens between them, a new sort of understanding, maybe.

Emotions pass through the connection, some Sherlock's feelings and some belonging to John. Neither of them moves or flinches away, but both can feel the invisible rope of guilt, longing, hurt and grief dancing between them.

After several long minutes, Sherlock clears his throat, purposely or out of nervousness the doctor doesn't know but it moves John into resuming his monologue.

"Once I was better, I  bounced around from place to place." John says, remembering the cities and countries that he visited. "I never stayed in the same place more than two days. I went to France, Germany, Russia, and even India. Eventually, ended up within the outskirts of Rome. There was intelligence that suggested Moriarty was there." John finishes, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's liquid smoke.

"I was alone and had contact with one person who would pick me up and bring me to the airport." John says wistfully. "I suppose Mycroft isolated me so that his secret weapon surprise didn't get ruined. It was lonely. I didn't have human contact for months."

"You were the only thing that kept me company." John admits before he can stop himself and freezes. How unfair of him that he could have Sherlock for companionship but the genius couldn't have John. He honestly didn't mean to divulge the information but he is glad to get it off his chest because when he looks at Sherlock again, the younger man isn't angry but rather pensive. John is about to hurry into the next part of the story but Sherlock's thought stops him. 

_"You could hear me in Rome?"_

The thought holds a level of surprise and John nods slowly.

"Yes. You were bloody annoying even in Rome." John says lightly and instantly regrets it. He remembers what Sherlock had pushed through the connection in Rome and there isn't anything worth joking about. He glances up nervously and relaxes at the site of a small smirk tugging at the genius's lips.

"Two days ago, we finally found him." John continues before he gets sucked into Sherlock's questions. He is almost done with the story.

"In some bloody warehouse that would even put Mycroft's favorite locations to shame." John states, smirking slightly at the jibe.

He stops for a second and recalls the moments leading up to entering the warehouse. The moment John had entered the vicinity of Moriarty's location, the smell of blood had hit him with full force. He remembers stopping mid-step as Moriarty's senses devoured the soldier, almost overwhelmingly.

John shudders at the memory but goes on.

"God, Sherlock." John runs a hand through his hair. "You would think that after the warehouse I would be used to his smell. I wasn't. The blood, oh my god, the blood. It almost consumed me again. It was so much stronger. I smelled him right away and that's how I knew that we were in the right place." John rambles with a horrified tone.

John tells Sherlock about how he remembers telling Mycroft through gritted teeth and the politician having the nerve to ask him 'if he was sure."

The doctor tells the younger Holmes about how he wanted to punch his brother so bad in that moment.

He told Sherlock about parking the car far enough away from the warehouse so Moriarty wouldn't know they were coming. It was there that they filled John in on the plan.

Unsurprisingly, it was the first time John had been told anything in the past six months.

Mycroft briefed him because the Super Secret Special Ops team of Mycroft's don't know about anything related to John's powers, gifts, whatever.

He was informed that Moriarty could read the minds of people and would know who was entering the facility. The team would be useless unless the criminal mastermind was otherwise distracted.

In that moment, John remembers the realization of why he was there.

_"You had to go in alone."_

John, out of surprises in the last 24 hours, actually expects the anger in Sherlock's thought.

"I did." John deadpans as he stands up to pace. Sherlock who had been steadily leaning forward towards the story unfolding is forced to lean back as John brushes past him, the doctor's form curling with agitation.

John paces restlessly, nervous and emotionally exhausted. He winces as his side hurts and his ribs protest as he opens his mouth to talk.

_"He hurt you."_

John closes his mouth and resists the urge to shrug Sherlock off, play it down. Tell him that it isn't a big deal but John is a horrible liar, John knows that and Sherlock definitely has the proof for it.

"Yeah. He did." John admits defeated, he stops pacing and turns towards Sherlock, his own face mixed with pain and shame.

He expected Sherlock's expression to be blank or at the very least posed for deductions, his fingers steepled under his chin with bright eyes. No, John has to stifle his gasp of surprise when he sees the raw emotion on Sherlock's face. All pretense is gone, the expression is not that different from those of last night when the former detective thought he was in the midst of a very vivid hallucination.

"It wasn't hard." John rambles with a hurried speech. "Going in alone, that is."

"I was lucky." John scrambles for words, "There was no one around and I was able to get in and around the complex without much difficulty. Whoever I met along the way decided to have a quick nap and let me pass." John smirks devilishly at the memories of infiltrated the criminal's lair.

John returns to pacing and gets lost in his memories. "I, alone held the only advantage. Moriarty can't read my thoughts and I could find him by the smell of blood. It made perfect sense and I did find him easily."

John takes a deep breath and continues. "I walked into a room and found him sitting at a desk. It all looked very normal." Disturbingly so.

"In a way, Mycroft had been right. Moriarty didn't see me coming." John states before starting the last part of his story.

* * *

_John walks slowly into a big room. Windows line one wall, floor to ceiling with deep purple curtains that flow haphazardly. There are expensive wood carvings and furniture that litter the room pretentiously and John stifles a scowl. The Irishman sits at a desk, unaware and unthreatened. Papers, with words and numbers scribbled on them, are scattered around him on the ornate desk. It all looks suspiciously like paperwork._

_Even consulting criminals can't get away from paperwork._

_Bummer._

_The thought of such a normal action actually terrifies John, and in that split second of surprise, the second where John is stunned by the normalcy, is the same second that John loses his only real chance._

_His element of surprise._

_If he hadn't hesitated and shot the Dublin man upon first sight, Moriarty wouldn't have seen him and wouldn't have distracted him._

_Moriarty had looked up at him in that second and showed a genuine look of shock at the sight of John before smiling wolfishly. The doctor remembers secretly applauded Mycroft's hiding skills._

_"Well. I must say, I am surprised." The accented man exclaims happily. He set down his pen on the desk before putting his palms on the desk and using the force to stand himself up. The movement smooth and all the more terrifying. John ignores the blood through the connection, trying to dampen it as he saunters out of his shadowed hiding spot with his gun, steady in his hands, aimed directly at Moriarty's head._

_John doesn't respond or move as Moriarty stalks around the desk gracefully._

_The ex-soldier sees Moriarty's eye twitch minutely before he feels it._

_There really is no warning, only a very intense pain in his side. He feels the slide of the knife leave his body and he is forced to the ground, landing hard on his knees in pain._ _One of his hands' falls from the gun and flies to his side out of instinct._

_"You are getting sloppy, soldier." A voice, thick with brawn and menace, that John doesn't immediately recognise causes the doctor flinch away. His gun waves, hanging limply from his hand, his fingertips barely gripping the handle. John flexes his hand faintly while he forces his head to look at his attacker in sheer defiance._

_A blonde man, one who he instantly recognizes from pictures. Sebastian Moran, stares down at him blandly, almost looking bored. John is just about to retort when Moran's fluttering hands distract him. John's eyes move to his attacker's thigh where hands are moving swiftly. It takes an embarrassingly long minute, due to his pain and general exhaustion, to realize that Moran is wiping his blade clean of blood._

_John shivers and looks away._

_Moriarty, during the time that John was distracted once again, has moved closer to the army doctor. The proximity makes John want to back up, especially as the blood floats tortuously through the connection._

_It was at this moment that John started cursing Mycroft and all of his future children._

_"Oh, Johnny Boy." Moriarty coos as he crouches in front of John. The doctor eyes him warily, blood seeping out of his side painfully. Moriarty moves to place a hand on John's cheek but the doctor flinches back violently, just out of reach._

_Moriarty's eyes are bright with amusement and the mastermind stands up and beckons Moran to stand at his side._

_John's gaze is cautious and curious. He winces as he pushes pressure against his side. He should be alarmed by the amount of blood he is losing but he can't focus. Blood leaking out of him, blood in the connection, enrapturing his senses to betray him._

_With as much effort as he can manage, John pushes. He pushes his hand against his side and he pushes the blood and the pain away._

_He has got more important things to worry about. Moriarty looks down at him once again and John pretends to slump forward a bit, faking defeat._

_He even tries to force the connection open without finesse, hoping for a distraction._

_The blood is almost overwhelming once he opens the floodgates but his pushes through it with strength and pure adrenaline._

_He vaguely sees Moriarty smirk and nod his head._

_A swift kick to his midsection crumples the doctor and he can hear the crack of his rib, if not more than one._

_He bits his lip in pain, refusing to scream out even though his entire torso is on fire. He writhes a bit on the ground, partly for effect and partly because it hurts like a bitch._

_John lets himself feel the pain in his side before pushing it away with great force. There are more important things to worry about. He tries to act defeated and even tries to make a connection with the criminal mastermind._

_The blood is as overwhelming as ever but John, with a new sense of strength and perseverance, ignores it and pushes himself in._

_"I thought we already established that our gifts don't work on each other." Moriarty sings as he crouches down to the slumped form of John._

_John tries to wriggle away but his torso screams in process._

_At least there is a bright side to this, now that he is lying down he can reach his gun easier._

_"It's a shame you didn't die the first time." The mastermind states eyes roving down the length of John's body. The doctor squirms uncomfortably. "I didn't really mean to kill you, but Sebastian is a tad protective. Hurting me was an unforgivable offense."_

_Moriarty gleams and puts a hand on John's stomach, right over the scar that he acquired six months ago. The connection is dulled through the clothing but not by much. John doesn't move, he keeps himself limp and tight-lipped, he isn't baited so easily._

_"I don't know. This seems like fate, Johnny." Moriarty says, digging his hand into John's stomach, the wound may be healed but the skin around it is still tender. The criminal mastermind continues, ignoring John's grunts of pain and the puddle of blood that is slowing pooling on the floor._

_"Something is telling me that it would be foolish for me to let you die a second time."_

_John snaps, he pushes his pain away even more. He refuses to be a puppet to this man's whims any longer._

_"Funnily enough," John gasps and Moriarty smirks smugly._

_"I don't have the same sentiment with you." John hisses angrily and in one sudden movement, he gets the gun between their bodies and aims directly at Moriarty, pulling the trigger without hesitation. He feels the heat and force of the bullet leaving and watches it lodge itself into the Irishman's stomach._

_An almost identical mark to John's._

_The criminal mastermind falls to the ground with a thud, his eyes, and mouth open with a shocked expression. John pushes and scrambles away from the gaping man, the doctor's eyes flying to Moran. John watches as the man stares in confusion for a second before his face twists in fury, shock, and anger, torn between his gasping boss and the man who shot him._

_John scrambles away, his arms and limbs discombobulating into a weird version of a crab walk. He thinks about standing up but a sudden throb from his side and ribs squashes that thought. It stops John and forces him to curl slightly to his side, breathing deeply for fear of throwing up._

_Before he has time to continue on his crawl, there is a body on top of him, a fist pummeling into his face. Immediately, John's head snaps back, hitting the ground with such force, John sees stars. John tries to roll to the side but Moran's hand's grip his clothing, forcing him still._

_Eventually, John forces his hands up and grips Moran's neck shakily. Before the brute man can move away John sends a turbulent wave of calm through the tactile connection._

_Seconds pass, and John breathes a shallow sigh of relief as the ex-sniper goes still and slumps over, landing face first next to John's heaving body._

_His vision has black dots dancing around the edges as John just lays there for a moment. He can still tastehearsmellfeel the blood that Moriarty's mind bathes in but its growing fainter and John can't help but think of it as a good thing._

_He hears them mentally before he sees them. The Special Ops team is projecting their collective adrenaline and servitude._

_He hears the doors to the office open with a thud and a bang, several people enter with heavy steps. John idly wonders how long he's been lying on the floor._

_His head twinges with the onslaught of closer and more focused projections and John winces at an upcoming headache._

_Yeah, he definitely has a concussion._

_The first person he sees is Mycroft. He resists the urge to throw up on his custom shoes, but only barely._

_"John." Mycroft's says mentally and out loud and John wonders if he knew that he did that. John looks up at the politician with a blank, bored expression. Or at least he hopes that's what his face looks like, it could be twisted in pain for all John knows._

_"John." This time Mycroft says it louder and John realizes that he hasn't responded and he must look a sight._

_With a nod and a grunt of pain, John opens his mouth._

_"Help me up." The doctor's voice is gruff and Mycroft nods, backing up, and two of his team hook an arm underneath John's armpits._

_John bits his lip even harder through the pain and sudden nauseousness as he is forced upright. Once his feet hit the ground, John pitches to the side slightly causing Mycroft, of all people, to take a step forward in case John falls. One of John's hand flies to his side and he takes a moment to get himself steady._

_John nods, his face a picture of confidence that he doesn't necessarily feel internally, and shakily moves away from his supporters. He limps over to Moriarty's form, gasping and putting pressure on his side._

_The criminal mastermind's eyes are wide in an unusual show of pain as John stands above him._

_The Irishman opens his mouth to speak but John doesn't want to hear any more of his torturous words._

_He raises the heavy gun and plants a bullet in his brain without a second thought. The smoking hole between Moriarty's eyes winks back at him and John drops the now useless gun._

_"I want to go home now." John says turning towards to Mycroft before collapsing to his knees._

* * *

"And then I woke up at the hospital and came straight here." John finishes crumpling on the sofa in exhaustion, his voice is hoarse from the non-stop talking. He stares unseeingly for a few minutes, his body tense and tight as he remembers that horrific time.

A few minutes more pass before the doctor hears a faint, _"John."_

He can sense Sherlock's body heat to the left of him as the genius repeats his name, aloud this time. The voice is soft and John has missed it so much, regardless of how often he's heard it in the past months.

"John."

John turns his head, breaking out of his trance of memories and feelings. He immediately notices how close Sherlock is sitting next to him on the settee.

"I'm sorry." John apologizes immediately, shaking his head trying to clear his vision. "I got lost." The doctor admits, shrugging his shoulders sheepishly.

_"You killed him."_

"I did." John says expressionless. He doesn't feel guilt or shame over Moriarty's death, instead, he feels indifferent. That should really bother him more than it is.

_"Moran is still alive."_

"How- Oh never mind." John says smiling for a brief moment before turning his head to look out the windows at London.

The sudden urge to look out the window overwhelms the doctor and he stands cautiously, moving towards the window. The street isn't very busy but it's getting later in the evening towards supper.

He lets his mind wander and get caught up in flashes and images of a dead Moriarty. A taunting Moriarty. The images overlap against the skyline that John has missed so much.

John doesn't hear the shuffling or the rustling of clothes behind him until he feels warm arms wrap around his midsection.

The doctor starts, flinching in surprise but Sherlock isn't deterred. He grips tighter while still being mindful of the blogger's injuries.

The gesture, the innocent and frankly sweet gesture almost breaks the doctor's resolve. He has to hold the tears back against the familiar embrace. Its so warm and familiar and oh John has missed it.

He leans back into Sherlock's chest while his head swims with emotions and feelings. He can't help it, his eyes start to blur with tears. He just wants to sob and fall asleep against the hold. He doesn't want to be exhausted or in pain anymore. He wants things to go back to normal.

He sighs, he doesn't deserve any of those things. The pain and the shame are a part of his penance.

"You should be furious with me." John admits quietly, hoping against hope that Sherlock doesn't move away.

"I am." The words hurt more than they should. They aren't surprising in the least but they still tug at John. The doctor makes to get out of the embrace before it can do any more damage to his hope.

But arms don't let him go. They grip tighter.

"I am very angry John." Sherlock says and John is growing more confused by the second.

"But I can see logic." Sherlock states softly, his breath puffing against John's ear, sending waves of contentment throughout John's body.

"Sher-" John starts but Sherlock shushes him kindly.

"I understand why you did it. I may disagree, emotionally at least, but I get it." The former detective confesses.

John doesn't know what to think. He is basically one word away from forgiven in Sherlock's book. No, John doesn't deserve that.

"You should throw me out and never want to see me again." John says in a whisper. He is pushing his luck but he is so lost and confused and his head hurts and his injuries hurt and the doctor doesn't know what to do.

"Is that what you want?" Sherlock's voice is so timid and dejected that John immediately turns around the man's arms. He looks up at the former detective who has hunched slightly, tilting away from John, his face pinched with nervousness.

"God, No." He admits thickly, blinking away tears. "I've lived without you for six months. I can't go any longer."

_"Good."_

John doesn't know who is more relieved at that thought, Sherlock or himself. John lets his forehead fall until it rests on the genius's thin shoulder, letting silent tears fall.

John feels Sherlock wrap his arms around the doctor's back once more and John breaks. The past months of Sherlock's mental reflections and declarations, Moriarty's taunts and memories that plague his nightmares, his physical wounds, they are all catching up on him in this one moment and the doctor lets the floodgates open.

"I love you." John blurts out wetly and becomes nervous. He hurt Sherlock and he still hasn't earned nor deserves the love back.

_"I love you too. I missed you."_

John suddenly wonders where the broken man went, the man who was convinced he was a hallucination. He twists his hand curiously to rest upon Sherlock's neck. The warmth of connection spreads and soothes John. He feels the lingering feelings of love settle between them and John revels in it for a moment. He feels Sherlock relax visibly against him. Sherlock doesn't let John in any further than surface thoughts and John doesn't push. He knows that there are things they still need to talk about any issues they need to work out.

For right now, he just settles for the fact that he can still hold Sherlock and that they both are okay.

A sudden thought pierces through John and he sheepishly grins, causing a shy poking through the connection.

 _"What?"_ Sherlock's thought is suspicious but holds no maliciousness.

"The last time I saw you it was the morning of our anniversary," John mutters quietly and Sherlock tenses involuntarily.

_"Happy Anniversary."_

"Happy Anniversary, Sherlock," John mumbles into the former detective's shirt.

He couldn't help but feel confident that they were going in the right direction.


	3. Nightmares

 

Despite the seeming ease of John’s return, Baker Street did not become rainbows and sunshine. Months of grief and anger is not magically fixed by John’s return.

No,  _but,_ it did get easier.

They still tiptoe around each other, John more so than Sherlock. The doctor walks around the flat with guilty expressions and shame-filled shoulders. He flinches and starts violently when he sees evidence of the turmoil that Sherlock had gone through during his absence.

The next day, after John had informed Sherlock about Moriarty's death, he had stumbled across four empty bottles of liquor. The clinking and initially shocked gasp had startled Sherlock out of thought. It took the genius four seconds to find the cause of that sound. He watched as John, his face expressionless, moved out of the kitchen, the bottles clanking in his hand. Sherlock almost stood up to, what, follow him, apologize, maybe take them from the blogger's hands, something. Instead, Sherlock just watched as John walked down the stairs silently and swiftly, right out of the flat and deposited them into the bins. When he came back, ten minutes later, his eyes were a bit puffy but he didn't speak. In fact, he didn't speak for the rest of the day and into the night. The first and last words he spoke of that day were to ask if Sherlock wanted tea before he retired for the night.

Sherlock, forgotten how to converse and cope with another person around, let John be during these emotional outbreaks.

However, over the course of the weeks following John’s return, the couple moved into a tentative routine. John, still technically dead, was forced to stay in the flat, even though the majority of those closest to him know the truth. He's even dialed his sister and there's a conversation that will never be repeated to anyone.

So, it was a waiting game for John. He's at the mercy of Mycroft to get his death revoked.

John spent the majority of his time cleaning the flat thoroughly and silently, occasionally the two of them would have casual mental conversations, much less than before John’s hiatus. Towards the end of that first week, the flat was the cleanest it has been in a very long time, even before John's death.

Sherlock, on the other hand, is nowhere near productive with his time. He spent the last six months wallowing in his grief, mooching off his savings and becoming best friends with liquor bottles. He doesn't know how to act now that his anchor is alive and in his life again.

He spends most of his days on the couch, sifting through his mind palace and fixing the rooms that focus on John, the rooms he may or may not have destroyed in a fit of anger and grief a while ago. His mind hasn't even grown bored, despite what John thinks.

Sherlock's boredom and subsequently his lack of cases have been the only heated words the both of them have exchanged with each other since John's return.

And by heated, Sherlock means that when John had asked why Sherlock didn't take cases, the former detective snap a simple, yet acidic 'Because.' and John went quiet.

It was uncomfortable silence, even for Sherlock and much different from the silences he had grown accustomed. The silence, heavy with grief and tension grates at the detective, so much so, that Sherlock apologizes mentally after two minutes.

John had looked up from his paper that he was reading leisurely and just shook his head.

"Its okay, Sherlock." He had said and nothing more.

He remained quiet for another two hours.

Besides John's obvious self-punishment, it isn't all bad. The fifth night after John's return, they both ended up snogging on the couch again before taking it into the bedroom. John’s nervousness was palpable and fear of Sherlock’s rejection hung heavily in the connection. Sherlock had scoffed and continued kissing John backward towards the bedroom.

At the end of the second week, the flat finally settled and Sherlock started to come out of his shell and John would go quiet less and less.

It helps that the one thing they both agreed on was that they wanted to sleep in the same bed again, although it was a little reluctantly agreed upon from John's end.

Sherlock would be frustrated with the man's endless guilt if he didn't realize how much John needed the emotions as his own form of punishment. The doctor is very aware of right and wrong and lying to Sherlock is very wrong in his head.

And it eats him up inside.

But Sherlock knows, he is very aware, that if John didn't feel this internal reprimand, he would be reacting much worse. The older man would feel terrible and undeserving of any move that Sherlock made for forgiveness. Men like John need a penance, they need to go a little crazy with guilt. They need to feel like they can make it better by apologizing through actions.

So, Sherlock lets him clean the flat and steal shy kisses, he lets John rebuke his advances because that's John not wanting to take advantage of the former detective, even though its hurts a little and Sherlock has found himself second-guessing John's feeling for him, on more than one occasion.

But all Sherlock would have to do is poke around the mental bond and he would see a pure love and want echoing out and he gently pushes John's reluctance away with his own feelings of love pulsing through the connection.

Still, John has never been one to do things the easy way.

At least with this outlet, John can feel guilty and feel like he is earning his trust back, rather than feeling like he was given it undeserving.

He lets John think he is earning back Sherlock's trust and ultimately love.

Even though, at least to Sherlock, John never lost it.

A side effect of John’s guilt is the doctor’s incessant need to be close to Sherlock’s person at all times, something Sherlock sees as a bonus. The former detective gets panicky if he hasn't physically seen John within a certain time frame, even if they've kept in mental communication. Truthfully, Sherlock has had multiple panic attacks through the week.

The panic attacks didn’t last long. At the end of the fourth week, Sherlock’s control evened out and his emotions settled, allowing the detective almost two panic-free hours without seeing John physically. He can even go fifteen minutes without something bouncing through the link. Anything more than that and Sherlock storms through the flat, yelling furiously and searching for John hesitantly in case this entire thing has been one big illusion.

When he usually finds John, the doctor doesn't say anything. He just looks at Sherlock and takes his hands while he pushes love and calm through their tactile connection.

Sherlock would sigh in relief and John would smile tentatively and hold onto him however long until Sherlock would get bored and walk away.

The only time Sherlock hasn't been bored with John touching him is in the bedroom and not necessarily just intimately. Ever since the first night, after Sherlock reassured John of his crazy notion that he was taking advantage of Sherlock's relief, they would retire to bed together, sometimes snogging, sometimes more but they would always fall asleep together. Tangled in limbs throughout the entire night, only to wake up with sheets rumpled and swaddling them together.

And if they both slept more soundly and with fewer nightmares and restlessness than that's just an added bonus.

That's why, at the start of the sixth week, Sherlock is jolted into consciousness with an uncharacteristic force, puzzling the brunette. His breathing is heavy and his mind fuzzy. He can't for the life of him stream his usual thoughts together, but he tries anyway.

He remembers being in the middle of a dream, a happy dream, ones with bodies in the refrigerator and eyeballs wherever he damn pleases.

This only confuses him further. His dream should not have woken him up or, at the very least, be the reason his heart is banging against his rib cage like violent drums.

Something has jostled the former detective causing Sherlock to snap into reality at lightning speed. He tries to blink but the moves are sluggish and Sherlock has to quell his panicked thoughts.

He tries to get his mind to cooperate with him so that he can try to figure out what is going on.

Finally, after seconds of trying, Sherlock is able to open his eyes completely and look at the white ceiling above him. They hold no answers for him, so Sherlock moves on. He wants to turn his head to check on John, to make sure he is all right.

Before he can turn his head, a sharp, sudden wave of fear barrels into him with a speed of a train without breaks. A groan escapes the younger man's lips and he stills instinctively.

What is making him feel this way?

An even stronger wave of paralyzing fear restrains him, shocks through him and he can't find its origin.

He tries to think but his mind is almost as paralyzed as his body is with fear. All he can think about is getting away. Away from the fear and uncertainty. His body screams at him to move, get away, get away, getawaygetaway.

He literally cannot move.

He cannot make a sound.

He wants to scream and yell and call out for John to help. Someone, anyone to help.

He reaches out towards John mentally and that's when he realizes the problem.

The fear is coming from the link.

He registers the heavy arm across his bare chest and Sherlock, despite the fear, deduces the cause.

It's coming  _from_ John.

The doctor is dreaming, John is  _dreaming_.

Another sharp and fresh wave of fear shoots into Sherlock and with it, comes a jolt of hard pain.

Correction, John is having a  _nightmare._

_"John."_

Sherlock calls to the soldier and he knows its pretty weak. Nothing can block the mental wave of pain and fear coming through it.

_"John."_

Sherlock tries again, focusing as much power into the thought as possible. The doctor only stiffens slightly beside him and remains unconscious of this reality.

Sherlock desperately trying to dispel his panic. He tries to open his mouth, calling verbally to the older man but his lips won't respond. The cupid bow remains clenched together thinly as if the fear is holding them closed with its icy tendrils.

_"John."_

Sherlock's callings are getting stronger despite his physical restrictions. John is starting to jerk and even a whimper escapes and John snuggles closer, leaning into Sherlock's lean form.

A few minutes pass, time ticking by agonizingly slow, and then some of the fear starts dissipates as the dream shifts slightly. Sherlock can feel it fading away from the connection, minutely, but it's enough. With effort, Sherlock twists away from John's grip cautiously. He watches with apt attention as John starts to shift with him, his hand clenching and unclenching, before stilling and allowing Sherlock free.

The detective almost falls off the bed with relief. Sherlock breathes, the fear is gone just as suddenly as it appeared. He takes a minute to suppress his panicked thoughts and emotions. Traces of lingering fear and the start of relief vibrate through him and the genius tries to keep his breathing slow and calm.  

Then he hears John whimper. A truly distressing and pathetic sound that goes right to Sherlock's heart. He glances over at John and watches as the doctor shifts unconsciously and with jerky movements. He can see the pain etched on his face clear as day.

A wave of faded fear reaches the detective but it goes away just as quickly. If John is projecting through the link, the nightmare must be extremely vibrant.

"John." Sherlock calls out for the doctor with a forceful but soft command, to no response.

Sherlock shuffles towards the older man, grabbing John's slightly trembling hands and pulling them to his chest. He keeps his mental shields up but the bond is still vibrating with fear. He latches onto the link, hoping for its usual warmth and comfort but, instead, he gets cold hostility. Almost completely unapproachable. It's such a new feeling to the genius that Sherlock doesn't think for a few seconds.

He shakes his head and focuses.

Sherlock has seen John having nightmares through the connection before, but they've never been this strong.

A jab of pain hits the former detective's mind and Sherlock closes his eyes automatically, willing his shields to stay strong.

A vivid image shines behind the younger man's eyelids, despite his protection. It's red and wet and hot. The genius focuses on it even though it pains him to do so.

He knows that these are the images that John is seeing too.

Sherlock holds in a gasp as the image focuses into a sharp picture.

It's a river of blood.

He can sense the stickiness and never-ending flow; reminding Sherlock of the Thames with glaring similarities.

Just as suddenly as it came, the bloody image disappears and Sherlock tries to calm himself.

It's not a war nightmare, that much Sherlock isn't sure if that thought should bring him comfort or worry him even more.

The nightmares where John thinks he is still in the sands of Afghanistan are dangerous for the soldier to wake from, especially if Sherlock wants to come away from them with his nose intact.

There are two different realities that happen when John has a nightmare about the war;

  1. If they are touching when the nightmare occurs, Sherlock eases John's mind elsewhere through the bond. This is obviously the easiest way.
  2. If they aren't touching it's a whole different story. Sherlock usually wakes up to the whimper of the soldier trying to fight off imaginary villains. It's not ideal to reach out and touch John during these nightmares. Any contact that isn't already established before the nightmare starts is considered a hostile force and the soldier will take action and Sherlock has the faded bruises to prove it.



John usually wakes from these apologizing while Sherlock waves him off before the genius prods and pushes until John is snuggled into him, Sherlock protecting the doctor's body and mind.

War nightmares are usually the nightmares that Sherlock can steer John into wakefulness.

But this, Sherlock's never had any experience with these kinds of nightmares. Ones filled with endless blood, ones powerful enough that John projects images into Sherlock's mind.

It's unsettling and it unnerves the former detective to a whole different level.

"John." Sherlock calls out loud while moving one of his hands to cup the doctor's face, sending all the calm and happiness he can through the link.

_"It's time to wake up now."_

Just as he sends that thought, the connection bursts with pain and more flashes of blood. It hits the genius with full force, causing him to blink rapidly. John is starting to move more violently beside him, his head thrashing violently as Sherlock remains temporarily blinded by the pain and startlingly images.

Sherlock shakes his head and makes a decision.

It's time for action.

The genius grips John's face with both hands tight enough to bruise. He blocks out the pain coming through the connection and starts digging through his own memories. Trudging up some of the happiest moments of his life.

The young man is the first to admit that happy memories are practically non-existent in his life. He can count on two hands the truly happiest moments of his existence and all but one include John.

Sherlock digs and digs.

It's not that he doesn't have a happy life, it's more like he just deleted things that seemed unimportant regardless of their emotional infliction.

John's restless body pushes the genius to excavate his brain for happiness. He closes his eyes and thinks, letting his thoughts sink deep into his brain for the most potent moment he can muster up.

He finally tracks a memory down, their first kiss.

This memory has a lot of emotions. Confusion, hurt, regret, and shock. Sherlock remembers idly how he thought he had made a mistake in kissing John, even though it felt so right. He thought he had misread the signals and, in turn, was wrong about a deduction (far more devastating at the time) and he remembers the hurt of John not returning his feelings.

Then John had kissed him back and in the end, relief had coursed through the detective so fast that his veins were on fire. The moment quickly became one of his happiest memories, the positive emotions overshadowing all the confusion and hurt.

The young man focuses solely on the moments of bliss, dragging them to the forefront of his mind.

Sherlock replays the memory through the bond slowly with almost eidetic detail.

The happiness surges through their tactile connection like wildfire, a conflagration of pleasure and comfort blazing through the link.

Sherlock is still surprised, after all this time that the two of them are connected so proficiently and deeply. Although he will never admit surprise out loud. However, when you live with a telepath, you never really know what thoughts are truly safe so he's pretty sure that John has felt or heard it from him regardless.

Sherlock brings himself back to John and opens his eyes to look at the man. The new emotions are counteracting John's fear and the connection surges with conflicting emotion causing the doctor to flinch violently before relaxing, but only slightly. His posture remains tense and his body stills while his breathing shakes and John's face twitches marginally.

Sherlock looks at the doctor's face with a frown. It's not enough and for a moment Sherlock allows himself to be concerned.

A sudden push in the connection causes Sherlock to falter. A wave of dull fear fights against Sherlock's attempts at calming intrusions, causing John's breathing to increase even more. A concerning thought pops into the former detective's head.

If this is just the dream how bad was the reality?

Sherlock shakes his head. Its blatantly obvious that this dream is from the days during his absence and Sherlock stills had no idea to what extent John has been through in the past months.

Not saying that it was a walk in the park for Sherlock either.

But if Sherlock understands one thing with certainty, it's logic. The genius knows logic. It's logical that when a human is alone for long periods of time without human contact, it can mess with the mind. Especially if that human was in a situation of constant one-sided contact during the forced absence.

Well, one this is for sure, it would take a lot less to traumatized someone.

But John was a soldier, is a soldier (some stuff never really leaves you) and he has faced and survived far worse and direr situations.

Sherlock studies the doctor with a far more intense gaze. Worry carves itself into the younger man's face. He studies John's face, scrunched up as his body squirms in a fitful slumber. Something isn't right, based on the sheer force of the output of fear, John has gone through more in the past months than Mycroft or the doctor himself have relayed.

That begs the question, what are they hiding from him? How bad has it really been? Did something worse happen with Moriarty? What aren't they telling him?

Sherlock doesn't make a habit of knowing details about people, oh who is he kidding, that is basically his job description.

Was. Was his job description.

Regardless, he knows more about John than the soldier himself.

The one thing that is a constant in John's life and in the past six months especially, is the constant feeling of uselessness.

If John hates anything, which is rare because that man is like a puppy, affectionate to anything, he loathes the feeling of uselessness.

They've never really talked about the doctor's hatred, almost fear, of being useless. Mostly because Sherlock deduced it and John knew, in his _special_  way, that Sherlock had deduced it.

Sitting in his bedsit coming back from war had almost killed the doctor. The last six months of hiding away, without adrenaline, must have been terrible for John, worse than torture even.

Sherlock can't even imagine.

Sherlock feels a new wave of heartbreak float aimlessly through the connection, however, this time it's the genius. The doctor's face twists into a frown in his slumber and shifts with spastic movements. Sherlock, realizing his mistake, quickly shoots away his thoughts and focuses on the task at hand.

Sherlock sends another memory of happiness but the doctor's movements refuse to quiet and Sherlock's panic starts to rise slightly.

It's still not enough and one thing is certain, John's agitation and harsh breathing are only growing worse.

John needs to get out of this nightmare.

An idea hits the former detective suddenly and Sherlock trudges up a memory that will surpass all others.

Now, the two of them end up in the hospital more times than recommended and usually these memories are the ones Sherlock deletes, but one, in particular, jumps out to the detective.

It was during the aftermath of the first warehouse incident that shakes both of their cores and may have acted as a catalyst to John's...leave of absence.

One moment in the aftermath, between Sherlock getting patched up from his gunshot, shooing away the unusual hovering Mycroft, (which Sherlock found out later that Mycroft had been worried, actually worried about the well-being of John Watson. Apparently, being summoned through mental channels causes civil servants to care) and John waking up from his coma, the detective was finally able to sit in peace. The young man's mind was going a mile a minute with worry. It wasn't the worse week of Sherlock's life because six months claim that title but those seven days were pretty bad.

It was the second day after John woke from his week-long coma that the memory comes from.

John's face was sweaty and his hair stuck to his forehead. His limbs trembled with soreness and his eyes shot open as he woke up from his nightmare. It's not an uncommon experience but this one had been different. Even Sherlock, who had sat beside the telepath while stroking his hand had noticed.

Sherlock bypasses the feelings of concern, panic, fear, and helplessness and focuses on the one emotion that calmed him that day. The detective remembers feeling relief, relief that John had awoken from his coma enough to even have a nightmare. He felt whole again, Sherlock, in the end, felt safe because John was alive.

As he embraced the shaking doctor, he felt safe and he felt like he was at home.

As the feeling surges through the connection in the present John relaxes monumentally.

John didn't need feelings of happiness or relief. John needed to feel safe. An emotion, no doubt, that he has missed the past six months in his forced isolation.

The memory and its safe undertones continue to race through the bond and Jcontinuenues to relax. The detective witnesses tension falls from the doctor's face, fading considerably and his limbs still with relaxation. The doctor's breathing evens and he snuggles closer to Sherlock's side before falling into a deeper slumber.

John does this all without waking.

Crisis diverted.

But, a trickle of lingering worry itch at the back of Sherlock's mind. He can help but feel something going on within John's subconscious.

Something that could either break John or make him stronger.

And Sherlock doesn't know which one he needs to ready for.

 


	4. The Former 'Former' Detective

It’s been a week, a week since Sherlock woke to John’s paralyzing telepathic dream. A week since Sherlock’s deduced that John’s time away was more fraught than he originally thought.  

Not that John remembers it anyway. He woke up that morning with a slight headache but his mood otherwise cheerful considering the tentativeness and still fresh return from his death. He had turned his head slowly, lazily reaching across to the still sleeping genius and kissed him awake.

John didn't know any better and Sherlock decided not to tell him. Instead, he let the doctor snog him reverently until they were both forced to get out of bed, for the bathroom and tea respectively.

Since then, some of John's guilt and shame have withered and the tension had started to ease out of the walls encompassing 221B Baker Street.

The confidence and normalcy between them strengthened, and they begin the path to healing.

And if Sherlock occasionally panics when he can't physically see John sometimes or if John goes into a guilt-ridden silence every few days for an hour or so, (however, the hours are decreasing and staying for lesser time intervals), well, neither of them mention it.

For the most part, life moved on and they just silently decided to live their lives.

It got only easier when Mycroft informed John that he is officially alive again.

Now the doctor can go and get milk or leave for a walk, just to get out of the flat. Especially, when the guilt becomes too much to bear. He took up walking around Regents Park recently, that way he stays within mental range of the genius to reduce panic attacks, on both ends.

Really, that's the only thing that hasn't really change. His gift is just as dependable as ever but living alone, without any contact in the last six months has made John less dependent on his gift. Whatever he wants to say, he says it out loud, partly out of habit partly because all he says nowadays are long explanations and conversations.

That doesn't deter Sherlock from using the mental bond just as much as he used to. When the genius isn't projecting his thoughts, through the always open bond at subconscious intervals, John hears endless streams of scientific jumble that makes no sense half the time but makes him smile regardless.

Most of the time there are intermittent sayings of 'John' being thrown in the middle of sentences, sometimes when John walks past the thinking detective, other times just completely random. Sometimes, the telepath even hears different languages float through the connection causing John to smile tenderly.

He wonders if Sherlock is just refreshing his skill for different languages or if he doesn't know that he switches languages, his thoughts just moving around with a touch of multilingual ADD.

All John knows, is that Giovanni sounds positively filthy when it floats randomly through the link on the days that Sherlock thinks in Italian.

John can, right now, hear the man in question pacing behind him. He turns his hand for a quick glance and sees Sherlock's mouth moving and his hands gesturing wildly in explanation. John delves deeper into the connection for a brief moment.

Flashes of cells, and microscope images, unrecognizable things that are grotesque and creepy when magnified float around. John smiles affectionately at the pure science floating around Sherlock's brain before he pulls back, not willing to distract the genius and his thoughts.

He moves his eyes back to the book in his lap, that he really isn't reading, and proceeds to get lost in thoughts again.

He closes his eyes briefly and listens to the clanking in the kitchen and grins for a spell.

Sherlock back in the kitchen, with his experiments and his science, is a relatively new thing. Not just since John's return either. When John moved into their bedroom, they turned the extra bedroom into a lab of sorts. A place where Sherlock could do whatever he wanted basically, as long as it didn't get added to their rent at the end of each month.

Not that Mrs. Hudson, or John for that matter, would ever venture up to that bedroom. It's really for their own safety.

So the fact that Sherlock is experimenting in the kitchen is a bit of a current news topic.

But, John can't find himself to be surprised, really. When John entered the kitchen and saw the microscope set up and Sherlock sitting behind it like a statue the doctor stood confused a minute before prodding the connection. In the midst of more scientific jumble, Sherlock had repeated John's name no less than a dozen times.

Sherlock wanted to be closer to John and the upstairs bedroom is too far away.

It's a flattering, if not worrisome, thought, and John chooses not to say anything, he just brushed his fingertips lightly across the back of Sherlock's neck before preparing his tea that morning.

And that was that.

And despite the new, and inevitable future messes that Sherlock creates/will create in the kitchen John will continue to say nothing.

Mostly because he so incredibly happy that Sherlock seems to be doing something with his mind again.

John had to listen to the horror stories of what Sherlock had been like and what the man had gone through in the months of the doctor's absence. Greg had met him at the pub, (only after the DI made him apologized to Mycroft for using his powers against him) and explained his own experiences with Sherlock in detail.

The blogger had sat at his bar stool, nursing his beer of the night and listened with rapt attention to Greg's hesitant narrative.

All the while, letting the guilt silently eat at him.

Lestrade recounted the multiple sweepings he did at the flat, looking for drugs or anything else the genius would use to harm himself. John just sat quietly, asked a few questions, and was sick for every horrifying second.

John knew about the lack of cases, he knew something had happened, nothing anybody has told him about (for his well being or for Sherlock's, John can never tell) but in that entire time, he didn't expect Sherlock to cease doing experiments. The only one that Greg saw him remotely invest time in had been a test on how to get alcohol into his system in the quickest way possible.

The doctor couldn't imagine Sherlock just letting his brain waste away like that, and John shivers even now at the thought of what Sherlock's bleak future had once looked like.

So, if he has to clean up a little extra mess during the day, he says nothing. The doctor is perfectly content to let the younger man do whatever he needs to do with his brain to heal.

And John is confident that Sherlock is actually starting to heal. Apart from doing more experiments, John has caught the man looking at news sites on the computer.

John lets himself feel a sliver of hope, hoping that the broken man that he had come home to is healing, hoping that Sherlock will start to leave the flat again, whether its to get body parts at the morgue or, John crosses his fingers, to chase down criminals again.

John can see the gleam in the brunette's eyes when he scans news articles that deal with murder. He sees the twitch of fingers, almost in want.

But, Sherlock doesn't do or say anything about it, sometimes he just closes the laptop (sometimes in defeat) and cuddles next to John who is inevitably watching some crap telly or Bond movie.

John doesn't mention it and just grips the thin man closer most of the time.

However, as the days pass on, John is getting more and more worried.

Cases, running throughout London, chasing criminals and even irritating the NSY staff use to be what Sherlock lived for and now he just doesn't care. His brain is rotting and John is at a loss. He just gets brushes off if he tries to mention it, even subtly.

Alas, John's determined to change it, he just can't fathom how.

Little did he know, by putting down his book on the table beside and picking up the paper would be the catalyst to this problem.

He scans the front page, rustling the paper a tad before moving on the inner pages.

A familiar trill of curiosity pushes through the link at something Sherlock has found in the kitchen and John ignores it, looking and reading the occasional article.

They are silent for a good half an hour before John speaks again.

"Oh look, a murder." And John doesn't know why it comes out, he really doesn't, but it's like his lips opened of their own volition and utter words that he hadn't even known he'd been thinking. He winces at his own bluntness and tenses in apprehension.

He doesn't even risk looking behind him and shifts the newspaper nervously.

The connection pulls taunt with tensions and apprehension and John shuffles the newspaper nervously.

"Leave it be, John."

The words are said out loud and quietly, with that dejected tone that John  _loathes_.

However, John notices secondarily that he is not met with an ounce of hostility.

He contemplates for a minute, wondering if today would be the day they have this conversation.

"I don't understand why you stopped." Apparently, they are. John snaps his mouth shut, willing his brain to stop saying things out loud before the blogger can think through the consequences.

John can hear Sherlock, his body unmoving because of the complete silence coming from the kitchen. The mental connection starts to recede, decreasing it's lilac and honey senses just as faintly, and the older man can feel Sherlock starting to put up his mental barriers.

The mental barriers going up is what sends John into a bit of panic. Their connection has been open ever since John's return and the blonde man has become increasingly dependent on it, just as much as Sherlock had during his absence.

"I mean with that big brain of yours-" John starts to ramble, trying to not lose control of the conversation, before being interrupted by the connection blossoming again with a burst of honey.

_"I tried."_

The thought is barely there and the doctor turns around to look at the younger man, his face twisted with tension. He sends cautious confusion and uncertainty into the link.  _"What happened?"_

 _"I tried, at the beginning."_  Sherlock hands have stilled in his lap and he lifts his head slightly to meet John's patient gaze before turning his eyes downcast again.

John stands and turns his body fully towards Sherlock, opening his mouth even though he doesn't know what to say.

It doesn't matter because Sherlock starts talking before John can even find the right words.

"It was the day after your funeral." Sherlock mumbles out loud, his voice a bit raspy and his eyes blurring a little bit with memory. He doesn't look at the doctor, his gaze zoned out, staring straight ahead of him.

He must have recognised on some level his hoarse voice because the former detective continues his tale telepathically.

_"I walked into a crime scene, even though Lestrade didn't want me to be there and I froze, or I think I did."_

John walks towards the kitchen as Sherlock tells his story mentally and ends up standing directly next to the genius, Sherlock's right shoulder perpendicular with John's chest. John has a had out to touch the former detective, but halts in fear of being rejected or worse, sending Sherlock into a panic.

_"Lestrade had to call Mycroft apparently and the next thing I remember I was sitting on the settee."_

John watches as Sherlock closes his eyes in pain and defeat and that decides it. The doctor lays a hand on the thin man's shoulders and Sherlock responds by leaning slightly towards John and his warmth.

 _"The victim was a blonde man and I could only see you."_ The thought is quiet and filled with such pain that it breaks John's heart even more. Emotions and feelings pass through the connection without obstacles. John catches the pain, grief, and longing from the memory, but he also catches feelings of helplessness, self-loathing, uncertainty and a little bit of humiliation.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." John whispers and wraps his arms around Sherlock, on arm across his back, curling around his shoulder and the other snaking down his chest and wrapping tightly around the man's thin waist. He pulls the younger man against his chest and doesn't hesitate to rest his check adjacent to Sherlock's curls.

No wonder the younger man doesn't go to crime scenes anymore. He was scared, hell, still is scared. He saw John in the face of a victim, who had been viciously murder no doubt, and Sherlock, already feeling the grief from loss just couldn't cope. But that isn't all of it, Sherlock's complex brain, somehow, equated the situation with proof that he couldn't do his job anymore.

He couldn't deduce the scene because he was blinded by grief and his brain told him that the next logical step was to quit his job, his  _passion._

Jesus Christ.

The doctor doesn't know what to say, so, he sends calming thoughts through the connection, love and trust and happiness.

The two of them remain embraced, silence passing around them for a while, with John contently sending thoughts into Sherlock's mind along with the occasional remorse filled apology.

"It's in the past. We have to move on." Sherlock replies, a little too eager to be believable, as he straightens slightly but doesn't pull out of the embrace.

John's eyebrows rise in surprise before a thought comes to him. What does Sherlock mean? That he just won't ever go back to the consulting detective business ever again? John lifts his head to look at Sherlock with shock. No part of him can imagine Sherlock without his need for running about London.

John shakes his head.

Not taking cases, that's absurd and not really even moving on. John thinks to himself, its more like moving laterally if moving at all.

"Yes, I suppose we should stop dragging our feet." The doctor muses to himself making a split decision.

He finds the hand that is wrapped around the younger man's waist and moves it to cup Sherlock's face, forcing his chin to the right so that John can look into Sherlock's gaze. Once he makes eye contact, John says, "That's why you have to start taking cases again."

Sherlock jerks back, his eyes slipping away from his lovers stare and his face slipping out of John's grip. The doctor expects a cold, stubborn stare to emit from the man but when John looks into his eyes they are only full of pain and fear.

The brunette doesn't say anything for a minute, his eyes whipping around like a caged animal as random thoughts bounce through the link and around John's mind. Some of them are almost incoherent, but John catches fear and helplessness the most.

Eventually a,  _"I don't know if I can,"_  is sent solidly through the link. Sherlock's eyes seem to deflate a little bit at the admission but John doesn't move away. Instead, he cups the man's face once again and places a kiss on his forehead, sending love through the warm spot where his lips meet the smooth skin.

"Sherlock," John starts, letting his lips linger close to Sherlock's forehead as the genius closes his eyes. He presses his lips against Sherlock's forehead once more and opens the connection even further and, instead of talking, lets memories speak for themselves. He sends memory after memory of Sherlock's sheer brilliance and confidence that John has witnessed.

Flashes of Sherlock, one of which consists of the memory of the genius strolling through a crime scene, deducing the motive, the killer  **and** insulting Anderson's tie within the time span of two minutes before leaving, claiming he was bored and even hungry.

He floats his own feelings of tenderness, trust, awe and admiration that roughly translates to,  _"I think you are brilliant."_

Just in case Sherlock didn't get the truth behind John's words, the doctor opens his mouth and says, "You are the smartest, most brilliant man that I've had the pleasure of knowing."

He bends his head a little to meet Sherlock now open gaze. He pushes is forehead against the genius's own, saying, "You are capable, much more than you will ever know."

Sherlock's eyes are unfocused but remain looking in John’s general direction, as he shakes his head in disbelief.

_"I don't know-"_

"Do you trust me?" John interrupts the thought before Sherlock starts to really believe himself.

_"John, I-"_

"Do you trust me?" John repeats, this time with a little more force, keeping eye contact. Sherlock's eyes widen slightly before nodding his head.

"Yes, of course." Sherlock says quietly, his shoulders relaxing slightly with the admission.

John takes a deep breath.

"If you find that you can't believe in yourself," John has to stop here and put up a warning hand because he sees Sherlock start to open his mouth to interrupt.

"If you find you can't believe in yourself," He starts again with a little bit more force, "you can, for the time being, or as long as needed, trust my words. Trust my feelings." John sends more memories of Sherlock's brilliance and deductions, letting the sheer confidence in Sherlock's abilities bleed through the link.

"I will _never_  stop feeling the way I do about you. Trust in that and borrow it until you can trust yourself." John finishes, pressing his lips silently against the former detective's lips sending more love, wonderment, amazement, and confidence through the connection.

Tears fall from Sherlock's eyes as the pure emotion sparks with electricity through the bound.

_"Really?"_

John hears the pure self-depreciation in that tone and ignores its, and instead, sends forceful happiness to emphasize a resounding  _"Yes."_

_"John."_

"Sherlock, let me help you." John's tone is just short of pleading as pushes at the connection. Sherlock's hands come up to grip John's wrists, his palms warming John.

_"Okay."_

John can't resist smiling broadly and asking, "Are you sure?"

Sherlock nods and pushes reassurances through the connection. His thumb rubs against John's warm skin on his wrists.

"So, I can call Lestrade?" John asks quietly. Normally, he would wait but he wants to see how quickly Sherlock adjusts to the idea of going back to cases.

Sherlock doesn't say anything for a minute or so, seeming to think through his thoughts. John scans his mind and sees the inner crisis going through.

Finally, a faint  _"I trust you, John."_ falls through the link and John's smile gets even wider.

"Good, I'm glad." John responds with a fevered whisper and presses his lips against Sherlock's once again. His thumbs rub across the man's cheekbones where he can still feel clammy skin left over from their conversation. He pulls away from their lip lock, before it turns into something else completely (not that John would object, per se), and looks at Sherlock's eyes for any sense of doubt or hesitancy. The detective, no more former anymore, just looks back with the utmost trust.

"Tea?" He asks, wiping away the remnants of wetness from Sherlock's face as the genius nods. John putts around putting the fixtures together while Sherlock goes back to his experiment. The only evidence left is the slight puffiness around Sherlock's eyes.

Soon, Sherlock is lost back in the world of science and John smiles affectionately putting Sherlock's mug next to his elbow, a safe distance from sudden, flailing movements.

He retreats into the bedroom not wasting any time. He pulls his phone, given to him at the same time Mycroft came around to return John's Browning which had been taking out of the flat for safety reasons (reasons that made John very quiet for the better part of a day).

John's new phone is a fancy smartphone that Mycroft insisted he owned, even though John barely knows how to work the bloody thing (he secretly thinks that the politician knew that and gave it to him anyway. Spiteful bastard).

He puts his own mug on the bedside table and dials Lestrade number before setting himself on the side of the bed.

It only takes a few rings before a gruff voice barks out at him.

"Lestrade."

John resists the urge to wince and feels bad for Greg's obvious bad day.

"Hello to you too, Greg." John teases slightly, letting his good mood leech through the phone, maybe Greg will catch some of it.

"John." Greg's voice brightens considerably, and John can hear the quieten of extra noise on the DI's end. He probably moved away or into his office away from the noisy bullpen.

"How have you been?" John asks politely, even though he just say the man not two days ago at the pub. But, it's the British thing to do.

"Fine, fine. How about you? Is everything okay?" Greg asks, not even bothering to hide his concern and worry in his voice and John hurries to respond.

"No, no, I'm fine, we are both fine. No worries, mate." John replies with a warm tone that he knows immediately soothes the DI.

"Good, good, I'm glad to hear it John." Greg sigh as he replies, just as warmly causing John to smile. "What can I do for you, John?"

John runs his hand along his jean-clad thigh in a suddenly nervous gesture. He doesn't know where the sudden caution is coming from, considering this is practically his idea.

"Do you have any cold cases?" John rushes out before he loses anymore more of his nerves.

Silence for a beat, then, "You are kidding." Greg's tone is happy but full of disbelief and amazement.

"You've really talked him into it." Greg whispers over the line as if telling a secret, or not wanting to get his hopes up. When John answers in the affirmative, he can hear the low whistle that emits from Lestrade. For a second, John wishes he would have told Greg in person so that he could read the man's mind and hear what he is thinking.

"I think I just got him thinking about them again." John answers diplomatically. "I was thinking just cold cases for now. Something slow." Sherlock may put his trust in John but the doctor doesn't want to push him back into the fire right away. Cold cases will satisfy his brain while still remaining detached from active crime scenes for now.

"Yeah, blimey. Good on you, man." Lestrade says and John can hear the smile in his tone. "I've got some files laying around that might interest Sherlock."

"Really?" John says breathing a sigh of relief, letting the tension go that he hadn't known he'd been carrying during the conversation.

"Yeah, of course." Greg states, "I'll bring them over later, sound good."

"Yes," John sighs happily, "that would be perfect. Will you stay for tea?"

"Yeah, why not? Mycroft is working late tonight anyway." Greg says and John revels in the easy friendship between them.

"I'll see you later tonight, murder permitting." The DI chuckles.

"Good, sounds like a plan." John agrees wholeheartedly before a thought hits him and he licks his lips nervously.

"Greg?" John says, his tone serious and a turn from the easy warmth they had fallen into just seconds before.

"Yeah," Greg says just as nervously, and John can tell that the man has straightened and tensed just by the tone of the doctor's voice alone.

"Can you make sure there aren't any blonde male victims." John says evenly even though his insides are aching.

For all that Sherlock insults the man's intelligence, Greg understands what John means wordlessly.

"Already planned on it, John. I'll talk to later." Lestrade says with such comprehension that John feels sheepishly silly for being nervous in the first place.

"Okay, and thanks, Greg." John replies with ease.

"Anytime." Greg chuckles and says his goodbyes but not before they set a time to go to the pub this Thursday in addition to tea tonight.

John hits the end button on his phone and sighs, running a hand over his face and through his hair.

He grabs his tea and hopes, as he sips, that he didn't step over any boundaries. Sherlock did agree to the cold cases or at least implied his agreement. He says he trust John and the doctor can't help but feel that he is a step in the right direction.

There still a doubt that niggles at the back of John's head, maybe he should have let Sherlock take the initiative in procuring case files.

John shakes his head negatively, trying to dispel the miserable doubts.

He can't help but wonder if this will help the detective or making the man revert back to his brokenness that he just escaped from.

 

 


	5. Back in the Habit

The criminals of London took a day off because Greg ends up coming over that night. With him, are three cold case files, three brown folders, each sealed with crimson tape, making them even more enticing.

John's fingers twitch first, surprisingly, itching to rip the red barrier and see what mysteries lie within the files.

No such thing happened, instead, Greg had just put them on the coffee table, letting them flop down like he didn't care about them. John thinks it's because Greg didn't want to bring attention to them in case Sherlock reacted badly.

Rather perceptive of the man, actually.

Nobody touched them or said anything and Greg accepted John's offer of tea.

They chatted amicably the entire night, affection and easiness projecting from Greg's mind without John's intrusion or assistance. After it had gotten late, Greg and John had gotten caught up in a debate about Doctor Who of all things, the DI left without a second glance to the files on the table.

John remembers walking Greg out with pleasant goodbyes and even more pleasant mental emotions. The doctor had smiled to himself before he bounded up the stairs to a worrying sight.

Sherlock had moved from his chair, the place where he had been sitting all night rather sulkily and was standing in front of the case files, his eyes slightly gazed over with apprehension. Fear and uncertainty hung over of the bond and John made a move to get closer to Sherlock.

_"I have some experiments to do."_

The thought had come quickly and before John got any closer, the detective had fled at a hurried pace, right into the kitchen and started to clatter around with dishes and the microscope.

John sighed and glanced at the files. Well, at least he didn't throw them out, John thought to himself and proceeded to leave them there and join the genius in the kitchen.

The files stayed in the same spot for two days, until John was forced to move them for the flat's weekly clean.

Over the next few days, the files would continue to move, partly from John picking them up and placing them in spots where Sherlock would be forced to look at them. Other times, the files would just show up in random places, underneath the microscope, back onto the coffee table, on one of the chairs and one weird time, on the bedside table.

But, they still hadn't been open, the red tape remained intact for all three files.

It isn't until now, another two days later, that John physically sees Sherlock touching the files.

John walks into the sitting room and stops as he sees Sherlock standing in front of the windows, curtains pulled back but his gaze unseeing. He's clutching the files tightly to his chest like a shield. John doesn't have to look deep into the connection to see the internal debate waging around Sherlock's mind. It's mostly played out on his face and with the occasional projecting emotion.

John watches Sherlock over the course of an hour, the detective unmoving and distracted.

John eventually probes the connection gently and hears all of the pros and cons of Sherlock's decisions. He is surprised by how deep in thought Sherlock actually is, how deeply the case files are affecting him, distracting him. Not once does the genius's face twitch or even register John's mental existence.

The doctor sighs and slinks away from the surface and decides to leave him be to work out the problems by himself. If he decides not to look today, then John will be just as supportive as if Sherlock opens the case files.

John patters around the kitchen, looking for distractions and anything that he can put some elbow grease into while he pokes the connection every once in a while.

He resists (and fails) the urge to smile when the thoughts start to change. Sudden thoughts of sisters and knife wounds float through the connection and John breathes out a sigh of relief, pausing his cleaning of the sink out, letting his head sink down as the deductions come over the connection subconsciously.

He stands there, reveling in the feel of active observations and the second-hand adrenaline rush it creates.

 _"John, how long would it take someone to bleed out from a stab wound that barely nicked their spleen?"_ The thought is fast and just so...normal that John feels a tear spring to his eye out of relief, happiness, and general hope.

He wipes his wet hands on a nearby towel and silently walks out of the kitchen. The detective has the files strewn across the table, just like he would normally have done months ago.

John doesn't bother to hide his smile, nothing could contain his happiness at this moment.

He listens to Sherlock as he sits down beside the thin man, grabbing for files and medical reports to find anything that he can help with.

He makes sure he memorizes Sherlock's face, the smile and the pure joy when the detective solves his first official cold case (boring, easy).

John's sends pride, amazement, and love through the connection as Sherlock grabs the next file and continues to work.

It's like a switch's been flipped because Sherlock seemed to finally click. His brain, the part that deals with observations and deductions, turns on again and with full force. John would often find himself stopping what he is doing to just listen to Sherlock's mind. He listens to the random observations, some about John, some about Mrs. Hudson, though mostly they seem to be about random people that he sees from the windows of the flat. It appears, to John at least, that the genius is testing his skills on accuracy and application. John smiles and leaves him with it on most days.

Even the detective's mannerism and demeanor have reverted slightly, he straightens and tips his head up when he observes and deduces, just like John's used to seeing and that fact makes John the most hopeful.

As it turns out, all but the last cold case that Lestrade brought could be solved without leaving the sitting room. Sherlock didn't say anything but John read through the connection that Sherlock expects to go into the field sometime soon. So when the time comes and Sherlock grabs his coat before grabbing John's as well, the doctor doesn't hesitate or ask questions, he just thanks him and follows out the door and into a cab headed for NSY.

Walking into the police headquarters is very strange for John, he had not been back since his return and he found himself getting lost in nostalgic joy at the familiar noises and somewhat familiar faces. He could sense Sherlock rolling his eyes, not unkindly, before tugging the shorter man's elbow and pulling John along.

Sherlock strolls onto Lestrade's floor, barely waiting for the elevator doors to open fully, before striding purposefully through the desks heading towards Lestrade's office without a care, pulling John around the corners and desks the entire way.

Eyes, filled with shock, surprise and even some fill with relief, (of those very few who could actually tolerate Sherlock's antics) follow the two men. Their stares go completely unnoticed by anyone but John who catches some of them while he's head swivels, still looking around despite being manhandled by the thin man.

They’ve barely entered the office before the genius starts to rant and rave about murderers and motives, catching Lestrade off guard.

Whoops, John maybe should have called first.

John decides not to worry about that and pushes it out of his mind. Instead, jerks his elbow out of Sherlock's grip, but not before sending the man a mock glare physically and through the connection. He moves away strategically, in case the detective means to grab him again.

He starts his polite greeting, saying hello to Lestrade and asking him about his general health, despite Sherlock's huff of impatience.

It takes about fifteen seconds before Sherlock interrupts, telling the DI about his deductions and completely ignoring pleasantries.

Both John and Lestrade just look at him with mirrored amusement. The detective's eyes are alight, with a shine and brilliance that John had almost forgotten.

John just sat patiently while they discuss the cases (see: argued...slightly). There are frequent insults, the words 'idiot' and 'moron' being flung haphazardly, causing John to chide the detective every time with admonishment projected through the bond, which in turn has Sherlock backing down moderately.

The genius doesn't stop completely, but John doesn't feel too bad because he can feel the relief and amusement coming from the DI who is secretly glad that Sherlock is back to his old self, despite the fact that they are arguing. John realizes, with a small internal gasp, that Greg has missed it, the arguing, the intelligence, the brilliance, he missed being called an idiot by Sherlock.

So, John doesn't really stop Sherlock from being insulting completely, for the sake of Greg's amusement.

Twisted man, this Greg.

Finally, after several minutes of arguments, they finally get to the part where Greg just shuts up and listens, while taking detailed notes. Sherlock informs the DI where he can find evidence to convict the murderers with little interruptions about their stupidity at leaving evidence in the first place.

Lestrade puts a hand up to cease the rant before it starts again and opens his mouth.

John, up until this point, had been sitting leisurely in one of Lestrade's guest chairs, watching Sherlock pace around the room and listening to the genius's mind fire observation after observation.

So when Greg yells suddenly, it startles John,  _the telepath_ , enough for him to start violently.

"Clarke!" Lestrade's voice echoes throughout the floor and John takes a second to appreciate the command and authority in the tone. John sits up a little straighter and looks around for the man that he has never heard of before.

A young man knocks on the door nervously and Lestrade waves him in. He flashes a small nervous smile in John's direction before looking at Sherlock, slightly paling.

John can't help but feel immediately sorry for this man.

"Sir." Clarke's voice is a deep bass that surprises John and has a confidence that doesn't reflect his appearance.

Lestrade waves the man closer and starts talking with him, his dark brown hair flopping and his well proportioned muscular body quivering as he walks towards the desk, past a twitching Sherlock. He would be attractive if he hadn't been such a young boy.

John distantly hears Sherlock's mind ramp up and John looks over to find Sherlock eyes twisting and turning over the man's body.

Uh oh.

This kid doesn't stand a chance. Sherlock is brutal with new people that he meets.

John tries to look over at Greg to get his attention, to save the poor man, but the DI doesn't look up.

Sherlock's mouth is open before John can stop him.

"A constable just promoted to sergeant, interesting. especially for a 22-year-old." Sherlock says causing Clarke and Lestrade both to look up. The man in question turns a little bit to look at Sherlock.

"Sir?" He questions nervously and John can see the twitching of his hands as if he is consciously trying to not wring his hands together.

Sherlock moves towards the man and starts to circle him, like prey. Clarke's eyes narrow with worry but nobody says anything, too shocked by Sherlock's audacity (even though they both, John and Lestrade, should be used to it enough by now).

Regardless, it's like watching a train wreck, John just can't look away.

Sherlock continues.

"You are relatively new to this department, instead of the uniform, you needed professional shirts. Your wardrobe is noticeably new but not expansive or varied as you've already worn this outfit once this week based off the old coffee stain on your sleeve and the stain of mustard on your tie," Sherlock pauses.

Clarke instantly looks down at the stains on his outfit, poking at the coffee stain slightly but not saying anything, his face unreadable.

".  .so not a lot of money then." Sherlock proceeds, pacing a circle around Clarke again. "Maybe you've got a sick relative? But your parents have been dead for quite some time I believe, at least your mother, no mother would let their son have a haircut like that and you haven't change the style in years. Could be an aunt or uncle but doubtful." Clarke reaches to his hair subconsciously, shocked but also strangely enraptured by Sherlock’s words. "So the cheating wife is more probable, spending money to look good for her adulterer." Sherlock pauses in front of the young man and squints, moving his face close to Clarke's and sniffing. Clarke, holding his surprise and in, leans back slightly. "No, not cheating, just a ridiculously narrow young woman with a shopping addiction."

John, during Sherlock's pause for breath, risks a glance at Greg. The older man's mouth is gaping and the doctor can hear speechlessness and his mind paralyzed with shock. John wants to say something, he tries to push something, a mental thought or even words, but nothing happens. John's body and brain are not listening to him and the doctor can only watch in rapt attention as Sherlock keeps talking. Clarke’s face remains blank, out of shock or anger, John cannot tell.

"You didn't sleep last night, the bruises under your eyes are evidence to the that, is it the new baby keeping you up or was it the worries of the new job?" Clarke's eyes widen even more with shock. "You're afraid that you're not ready for such a responsibility. You are young and feel inadequately inexperienced, and rightly so."

"Sherlock." John growls and the doctor does an internal happy dance, thanking the gods that his mouth started to work. He sends stupidity, shame, admonishment and unhappiness through the link.  _"Bit not good."_

John starts to stand, in preparation to move over to the man and apologize heartily before dragging the detective out, by the ear if necessary.

"Wow," Clarke's admission makes John stop halfway in the movement of getting out of his chair before falling back into it, in even more stunned silence than before.

_"What?"_

The thought comes from both Greg and Sherlock at the same time.

"What?" Sherlock says out loud, moving his body to stand right in front of Clarke, his eyes narrowed.

Waves of uncertainty and confusion dripping through the bond and John can't help but agree with the emotions. What is going on?

"I mean," Clarke starts, licking his lips nervously, "I heard about what you do and I didn't really believe it. The guys would tell me but I thought they were just trying to prank the new kid."

Sherlock backs away gracefully, his face blank but shock bouncing around the bond. He risks a glance at John and the doctor forces himself to just shrug in surprise.

Nobody moves for a minute, Sherlock tapping his finger against his lip and Clarke starts to shift nervously.

"I didn't realize that you would be extremely accurate." The young Sergeant states matter of fact.

_"The last person who didn't run away screaming had been John."_

The errant thought hits John, causing the blonde man to look at Sherlock, about to say something but then his attention gets drawn back to Clarke.

The younger man had turned to face Lestrade again and asks a tentative, "Sir?"

Lestrade, the poor guy, doesn't respond right away, still trying to wrap his head around what just happened.

"Sir? Did you need anything else?"

"Yes," Greg clears his throat. "I need you to take these notes to Gregson and tell him to call my phone if he has any questions. He'll know what it's about." Greg's voice is sturdy, all evidence of shock gone and exuding authority.

Clarke straightens automatically and with a 'Yessir," he starts to move towards the open door.

Sherlock, Greg, and John watch the younger man hit the doorway and then turn around looking straight at Sherlock.

 _"Here it is."_ Greg's thought projects into John and the doctor glances his way before bringing his eyes back to the standoff.

"One thing, Sir?" Clarke asks, his expression blank with a hint of curiosity. Sherlock nods with the same amount of curiosity. "How did you know about the baby? Nobody knows about the baby."

"Elementary." Sherlock says smugly, a quirk of his lips littering his face faintly. "You have some baby lotion, the kind that parents frequently use on their infant’s heads because of dry skin, on your neck. It took me a little bit to get that from the smell alone but..."

"Huh," Clarke says, with almost no emotion whatsoever, before rubbing at his neck and coming away with a crusted piece of lotion. "I hate this stuff." Is the last thing Clarke says before walking away, nodding to Lestrade and John in goodbye. The piece of paper clutched in one hand while he rubs absently at his neck with the other. People eye him coming out of the office, but he doesn't look any worse for wear.

Sherlock turns away from the door and faces Lestrade who's face returned to a stunned expression.

_"I like him."_

John resists the urge to laugh out loud at the thought coming from Sherlock.

"What...just happened?" Lestrade asks quietly after a few minutes of silence, he had been standing until this point, he collapses into an ungraceful heap in his chair.

"I have no idea." John says looking out in the cubicles for answers that aren't there.

Sherlock just shrugs and says, "We should keep him," that has John chuckling out loud this time. Sherlock sends a smile to John and begins smoothing down his coat with one hand in preparation to leave.

"Keep him? He's not a dog, Sherlock." Lestrade says loudly, standing up to get the genius's attention again. The detective ignores him and sends a mental,  _"Come along, John._ "

John makes a move to follow Sherlock out the door and heads towards the elevator.

Before he can get out the door, Lestrade calls after them.

"Wait, Sherlock what about the third case file? Sherlock!" Lestrade yells and John sees Sherlock turn around and poke his head back through the doorway to look at Lestrade. John has to lean back or he would have a head full of Sherlock bouncing against his chest.

"I'm still working on that. You will have the murderer by the end of the day." With that, Sherlock nods, just as Clarke had and meanders away.

John turns away from watching Sherlock walk away. "I will text you with information." John says placating and Lestrade wave him off.

But not before hearing  _"Bloody Idiots, those two,"_  projected from the DI.

John smiles as he jogs to catch up to Sherlock, making eye contact with some of the more hostile yarders, daring them to say anything to Sherlock.

Just as he gets into the elevator, Sherlock's already on his phone, not really paying attention, but John sees Clarke. The doctor gives the man a bright and friendly smile, wondering if the man knows how rare he is. Of course, Clarke has no idea and just smiles back as the elevator doors close.  

The case proceeds and the two of them share a companionable silence in the cab headed to St. Barts. John doesn't ask questions, he just scans Sherlock's surface thoughts and hears their direction and their motives for going to Barts. John backs out of the connection once he finds out what he needs to know and just sits there silently, looking out the window while his mind wonders aimlessly.

He lets his mind wander to Clarke and how shocking and refreshing the man's reaction is. He feels like they've got another ally on the force and John doesn't read any hostility towards the younger man from Sherlock's mind and for that John is happy. It's not often they meet people like Clarke, people who take Sherlock with a grain of salt and tolerate him.

John reaches across the seat and squeezes Sherlock's hand resting on his thigh, just because he can and he's being a bit sentimental.

If this had been the Sherlock before John's death, he would have just squeezed back once before removing his hand to steeple them under his chin.

But this Sherlock has changed. Yes, he still has his deductions and observations but his priorities have shifted a little bit. Now, Sherlock grips back, looking at their intertwined fingers, the connection buzzing and warm, before meeting John's gaze. The detective smiles sweetly but doesn't let go. He does go back to observing and thinking but his hand remains in John's.

When they arrive at the morgue, Sherlock squeezes John's hand before letting go and tearing out of the cabin a whirlwind of black and haughtiness, leaving John to pay the cabbie.

Some things never change.

When John catches up to the man, Sherlock is already bending over a cadaver, his magnifying glass out and looking closely at the fingernails. John thinks about asking or at least scanning the genius's thoughts but Molly comes into the morgue before he can make a decision.

He smiles at her tenderly as she comes in with her arms full of books, reports and other things that make it look like a cluttered mess.

"John." She exclaims, returning his smile just as tenderly and John moves to help her, taking some of her burdens and following her to a desk in the far corner. "How have you been?"

John winces internally, he hasn't been to see Molly since his return. He knows that she had been instrumental in his death, having to sign the death certificate and make Sherlock believe that John's death was real. He's been kind of avoiding the memories and in turn that meant her.

He suddenly feels a bit guilty, he has always had a soft spot for her and it's not her fault in the least.

"I've been good, Molly." He replies affectionately and helps her straighten the books on the desk.

"Good, I'm glad." She says straightening up to look at John. Her face hasn't changed since John's been gone and she looks happy. They chat amicably for a while, every once in a while John looks over a muttering Sherlock who has commandeered the morgue's microscope instead of moving to one of the labs.

Molly tells John about her new boyfriend which makes John feel immensely happy for her.

At one point, Sherlock calls John over to look at something and Molly takes the opportunity to get coffee for the two of them.

When she returns, warm perfect coffee handed to him with a grateful smile, her tone takes a serious note.

"How have you been really, John?" John looks at her seriously before opening the connection between the two of them. Fresh grass and cinnamon infiltrate his mental senses and John takes a minute to enjoy her senses. He's always like her taste/smell, it's refreshing and undemanding and so uniquely her.

Right now, her mental link is hiccupping between ease and worry. John opens his mouth to talk before he even decides consciously.

"I've been doing alright," John's voice lowers a bit, "It's still hard sometimes with the guilt." He avoids Molly's eye contact sheepishly. He hasn't really talked to anybody about it besides Greg and they only really go over the surface of what John is feeling.

But, Molly, she has always been kind to John, even when she was in love with his boyfriend for most of the time. He trusts her.

"But," He says before she can interrupt with platitudes. "It's getting better, a lot better. Especially now that he is using his brain again."

Molly nods in understanding, making humming noises. "That's really good, John." Molly's voice is sweet and laced with sincerity and she rests her hand on John's exposed forearm.

The connection is instant and John listens to the thoughts and feelings in his mind. Affections, happiness, peace, hope, delight, comfort and pride. The doctor has to lock his body from swaying against the onslaught of happy moments.

For a second, he registers Sherlock projecting John's name, he must be overflowing into the bond.

He smiles in sincere gratitude back at her and even sends it subtly through the bond. She nods and pulls back before their topic becomes light once again.

Molly begins telling John the story of how she met her current boyfriend. She had jokingly assured John that she was pretty sure this one wasn't criminal mastermind because Mycroft had checked into it for her. That statement caused a completely different conversation that resulted in the admission that, apparently, Molly and Mycroft have gotten closer because and since John's death and proceed to have tea occasionally.

And doesn't that thought make John's head hurt?

Halfway through the story, they are both startled by Sherlock jumping up in victory and a triumphant shout.

_"Excellent!"_

John smiles at the younger man and dives into the connection to see that Sherlock has found out where the killer is based on dirt and how the nails had looked in the crime scene photos.

Brilliant.

Sherlock grabs his coat excitedly and rushes out of the room, the mental connection muttering about the Thames and neighborhoods surrounding the docks. John looks at Molly with a smile that she returns without hesitation, both feeling happy and relieved that Sherlock is back to his old self.

"I better go." John says, putting his coffee down reluctantly and tells himself that he should get a move on before the detective leaves without him.

He grabs his own coat and thanks Molly for the coffee and chat. Just as he turns to move towards the door, he hears Sherlock call for him mentally, slightly panicked. John hurries out into the hallway and sees Sherlock. The man has stopped down at the other end of the hallway, his body posed like he's just about to turn around. John can see the slightly panicked look and jogs over to him with a smile.

"Let's get going then." He just says, smiling, and races past the detective. Happiness exudes from the connection and he can hear Sherlock following him out of the building and into a cab.

Sherlock spends the entire taxi ride on his phone and John listens over the connection at random names and property holdings for wherever they are going. He just sits back quietly and doesn't bother the genius. They eventually pull up to a neighborhood that runs parallel the Thames. It looks like a warehouse or office district with access to the river because John can see sporadic docks jutting out into the water.

They pile out of the taxicab and watch it leave. It is dusk now and the purple and red haze of the sun setting reflect off the water.

_"Come along, John."_

John looks around and realizes that Sherlock has started walking down the street, towards the mouth of an alleyway the John didn't notice until now. He catches up to Sherlock and scans the connection looking for answers.

All he gets back is excitement and adrenaline. He shrugs and follows in step with the man.

_"We are looking for an Eric Melville. He doesn't own a flat or property except for his boat so that's what we are looking for. It's called Maria."_

Sherlock turns his head towards John and the doctor nods in understanding. They inch along the alleyway until they come to an opening. John can see multiple boats moored to a massive dock system, with wood jetties branching and twisting into multiple paths. John automatically drags his eyes along the docks and up and down the bank, surveying his surroundings easily and efficiently. Sherlock's hand sneaking into his pocket startles John into paying attention to the genius and he wonders for a second what the man is doing. Then he feels the reassuring weight of his Browning slipping into his pocket.

He sends amusement, uncertainty, and intrigue through the connection.  _"Did you have that the entire time?"_

Sherlock just smirks smugly, pats John's upper arm and walks towards the boats. John smiles after the detective, suppressing a chuckle and gripping the gun in his coat pocket.

They walk down to the dock together, turning left and right, continuing further into the maze of wood planks and moored boats. Eventually, they come to a split veering to the left and right. Sherlock looks at John with apprehension. John smiles and nods his head to the left. He sends safety and reassurance to Sherlock.  _"It'll be fine."_ Before Sherlock can second guess it, John strolls to the right, making sure to keep the connection open so Sherlock doesn't panic.

John follows the boats, looking at their names in the fading light. He is almost at the end and is about to turn back when he looks at the last boat. Fancy script  is sprawled elegantly across the back, and  _Maria_ stares back at the doctor and John smiles in triumph.

He looks at the boat and realizes that it's bigger than he had expected it to be. It consists of two decks, the top is smaller and where the steering and controls are located. The bottom deck is obviously bigger, although it appears to be mostly enclosed, spare about six feet in the back where numerous amount of fishing equipment is strewn haphazardly. John eyes the cabin and it looked to recess a bit into the bowels of the boat but the doctor can't be sure how far.

He could see a light streaming out from underneath the closed door and soft music floating quietly through the air.

He sends a poke through the mental connection, trying to get Sherlock's attention.

_"John?"_

John sends a quick burst of happiness before he adds on pride and excitement.  _"Yes, I found it."_

_"I'm on my way."_

John doesn't wait for too long and he hears Sherlock's quiet thoughts get stronger before he hears the man's footsteps.

Sherlock looks at the boat once and smiles triumphantly at John.

_"Gotcha."_

John smiles back and steps back a little bit to see what Sherlock would do next.

"Eric Melville." Sherlock says leaning forward trying to see into the cabin. His voice is loud and carries dramatically across the docks and surrounding water. "I know you are in there. I wish to speak with you."

John's hand goes to his pocket and grips his gun. He stares at Sherlock incredulously who turns to sneak a glance at John. He sends confusion and a forceful wariness.  _"What are you doing?"_

Sherlock looks at him briefly before shrugging smugly.  _"Worth a shot."_

That damn man, John thinks in amusement. Before he can scold Sherlock, there is a grumbling and shuffling coming from inside the cabin. He can hear things get shifted around and thunderous footsteps echo almost as loudly as Sherlock's voice did.

A rough cockney accent calls out to them incoherently, muffled by the door.

"Mr. Melville." Sherlock repeats with a nervous twinge, that John realizes is an act.

"Ya,', Ya' 'M coming. 'Old yer 'orses." The door to the cabin burst open with a thud and the man comes out, younger than John would have thought based off his voice, obviously rough from cigarettes rather than age.

John raises an eyebrow at Sherlock, sending curious uncertainty.  _"Is that him?_

The detective nods and brushes against the connection softly. John takes out his phone and sends a text to Lestrade.

"Wha' this about?" The man says and John looks at him again. His brown hair is long and shaggy. There are stress lines around his forehead and eyes and the man looks sick with worry. John watches as Melville steps to the edge of his boat, his hands on his hips, shooting a fierce glare at the two of them. He looks like he is getting ready for a fight.

John shuffles his feet unnoticed, placing them shoulder-width apart into a position to easily fire his gun if need be.

"I'm here about the murder of Jessica Dunner." Sherlock says without any hesitation, leaning forward with excitement.

Subtle.

The man's expression sours further and his eyes narrow. "I don' know wha' yer talkin' about." The man's voice is clipped with tension.

"I believe you do." Sherlock says, shuffling forward, getting closer to the murderer. Great.

"She was your co-workers’ sister, you loved her but she didn't love you back. Maybe because of the outrageous amounts of cigarettes you inhale but more likely because this boat is the only thing you have to your name. No ambition.”

John can tell the exact moment that Melville decides to lunge. His face went from closed off to angry to downright furious by the time Sherlock finishes talking and the man's feet locked and braced themselves. That's how John is able to tuck his gun away and lunge at the man, mid-jump, preventing his clenching fingers from reaching Sherlock's throat.

John drops the man onto his front and puts a knee to his back. Zip-ties are shoved into his face and John is forced to jerk his head back slightly before realizing what they are. He takes them, smiling gratefully at Sherlock, only wondering idly where they came from.

He grabs the man's hands and twists them behind his back, effectively clasping the zip-ties around them, restraining the man. John keeps his knee against the cockney's back and doesn't move. His face wide with a silly smile as the adrenaline courses through him.

_"Well done, John."_

John looks up at Sherlock and smiles harder and feels the amusement ooze out around the bond.

"On behalf of the New Scotland Yard, we are detaining you on suspicion of murder for Jessica Dunner." Sherlock states, his tone bored as he jumps into the boat, moving towards the cabin aimlessly, John just shakes his head and watches in bemusement at Sherlock's curiosity.

"Y’r can't do this!" The man screams, struggling under John's grip, but the soldier just presses his knee a little harder into the middle of the man's back, stilling him.

"You killed a woman." John states calmly, watching the man's antics.

"Tha’ bitch ‘ad it coming." Melville spits and bucks against John's body weight.

There is sudden force beneath him, a force that John isn't prepared for and Melville succeeds in bucking John off. The doctor is forced backward, his back landing on the hardwood with an 'oomph' and the air leaving his lungs in a shocked breath. He doesn't let himself be distracted, his hand moves towards his coat pocket to grab his gun. It never makes it, a sudden, strong body lands on his chest, one of the man's knees pinning his hand to the dock and the other knee moving to his neck, crushing John's windpipe.

John scolds himself for being rusty.

He sends panic into the mental connection as he tries to push the knee off with his other hand. He can see the angry black eyes of Melville sneering down at him and isn't that a terrifying look.

Just as black spots are threatening to hinder his vision, the body weight is suddenly gone and John gasps and coughs, rolling to one side and onto his hands and knees as he heaves in breaths. His lungs expand and his breathing takes on a wheezy sound.

_"John."_

_"John."_

The doctor looks over at the detective. He sees Sherlock straddling the man's chest and throwing fists into the man's face.

"Sherlock." John rasp, trying to call but his voice cuts out and John is forced to endure another set of coughs. John pushes calm and safe thoughts through the connection, trying to dispel the anger, pain and fear that have saturated Sherlock's side of the bond. Sherlock's fist is still posed, ready to strike, when he jerks his head over at John.

The doctor smiles and sends another calm wave before sending a sadness and pleading fear.  _"I'm fine, I'm fine. Please stop. Stop."_

The detective nods in understanding, a quick swift gesture, and snaps his hand to the man's face with precision, effectively knocking the man out.

John sighs in relief and that sends him into a little coughing fit. He pushes back so he is sitting on his knees just as Sherlock crouches next to him.

_"Are you okay?"_

The thought holds panic and John brings a hand to the man's cheek with a nod. He sends content calm and happiness.  _"Yes, I'm fine."_

"Help me up?" John asks sweetly and the detective gathers the man around the waist and helps hoist him up. John sways a bit as his head goes a little fuzzy but it passes soon enough and John smiles. He squeezes Sherlock's arm and walks out of the embrace.

He walks over to the unconscious form of the criminal.

"That was a close one." John states lightly and a tad nervously. He felt the panic and the fear that Sherlock was feeling, still is feeling. This incident could bring them back to square one.

He feels Sherlock stand beside him and John looks at the taller man.

"Yeah, it was." The response is tight but it's better than no response at all. At least, Sherlock isn't going into a protective panic. They'll have words later but for now, they are okay and John smiles a wide and open smile until the younger man looks at him.

When their eyes meet, Sherlock sends a tentative smile and reaches out to grab John's hand. The doctor squeezes the grip and sends love and gratitude over the link.

A few minutes later, John's gift picks up the familiar bacon and fresh grass taste/smell that belongs to Lestrade. The doctor smiles and seconds later he hears and feels the docking beneath them start to shudder with multiple footsteps. The doctor applauds Lestrade on his reaction time. It couldn't have been more than ten minutes or so since John texted him.

The DI arrives in their line of sight, his legs moving fast and his breathing hard. John can see the DI's eyes scanning the two of them. John latches onto his mind and brushes against feelings of worry, exasperation, and slight panic. John winces slightly but doesn't say anything.

Lestrade relaxes once he gets close enough to see that they are, relatively, unharmed. He takes a moment to breathe heavily before his eyes look down and see Melville.

His eyes narrow and he sighs with exasperation.

"Oh shit."

John resists the chuckle that wants to escape. He watches off to the side as Lestrade calls in more people, one of which John recognized as Clarke, to take care of the crime scene.

John and Sherlock, however, are stuck at the scene for at least forty-five minutes.

After Sherlock informs the DI that the evidence they would need for a conviction is located in the cabin, Lestrade spends the next ten minutes yelling at Sherlock for running into danger without back up.

To which, Sherlock argues back that John is his backup. Which then pushes the spotlight onto John and another ten minutes pass, this time Greg yells at John for running into danger after the clearly psychotic madman.

It's when John tries to defend himself that Lestrade finally notices the doctor's raspy and hoarse voice that accompanies the stark, reddening bruises around the man's neck. Then, the DI spends another ten minutes yelling at John for being a stupid idiot who can't stay away from trouble, all the while dragging the doctor to the waiting ambulance. He sits John down, rather roughly, and doesn't move until John consents tbeng looked at.

While John is getting seen to, (nothing major is damaged, just a sore throat and bruises for a couple of days), Greg spends the next five minutes yelling at Sherlock, again, for dragging John into trouble.

All in all, its a lot of yelling. John allows the DI to get his frustration out because John can feel how worried the man is, for Sherlock and the doctor's well being. After sending Greg's worry through the connection to Sherlock, and the two them share a brief, mental conversation about worrying their friend, Sherlock huffs and lets Lestrade yell to his heart's content.

After John gets cleared by the paramedics, they spend the last ten minutes or so giving their statements.

Finally, after forever, they are allowed to leave. The night has turned into a perfectly cool evening and the two of them decide to walk for a little bit before catching a cab.

Once they are far enough away. John lets the chastisements from Lestrade roll off his back and grabs for Sherlock's glove-less hand. He sends overpowering emotions of admiration, pride, and amazement into the link.  _"You did it."_

The answering smile is so wide that John can't resist mirroring it. The doctor just leans into the taller man, letting their post case high and happiness spread throughout the connection between them.

 


	6. Mycroft pays a visit

**One Month Later...**

John heaves the plastic bags off the rack and walks out of his favorite Tesco's, well really his second favorite, Sherlock's ruined his first favorite.

Long story.

Anyway, John walks out of Tesco's with a smile on his face and bread, tea, jam and milk in his hands. He turns to the left and heads towards Baker Street, towards home.

As he starts his twenty minute walk, John lets his mind wander.

This past month had passed in a kind of blur, a happy, adrenaline filled blur.

It all started the day after Sherlock, and John by extension, completed their first official 'in the field' case.

(Flashback)

The consulting detective, no 'former' anymore (and isn't that a positively giddy thought), had opened their bedroom door so loudly that morning that John had bolted upright with a hand flying to the gun that wasn't there. The younger man had dragged him out of bed, rather contritely, despite their late night of celebratory dinner and then an even more celebratory sex marathon. John still aches but gets up anyway, pulling on his clothes without looking at his choices.

Sherlock had come storming back into the bedroom, claiming that John didn't have time to preen himself because they had to leave right that second. It wasn't until John was in the cab and they were half way to their destination that the doctor decided to ask where they were going exactly.

To which of course, the detective didn't answer.

Instead, Sherlock had been vibrating with excitement, a kind of excitement that would have had John, before his death, nervous and wary, but now, John had to hide his smile behind a very convenient yawn.

It wasn't until they pulled up to New Scotland Yard that John finally understood what had gotten Sherlock so excited.

Sherlock and John stormed into NSY, straight for the elevators and up to Lestrade's floor. The entire elevator ride, John stood next to the trembling genius, who looked like he was going to explode with enthusiasm at any moment.

"Christ, I'm going to need a coffee." John had said, just as the doors opened and Sherlock shot out while John shook his head with exasperation.

John followed the detective's tornado-like wake, himself walking with less destructive force. Christ, if he hadn't known where Lestrade's office was located already, he would have just followed the bewildered looks. He passed some desks, smiling sheepishly at some of the friendlier yarders but continues towards Greg's office.

As John made his own way to the DI's office, he got his own fair share of perplexing and pitying stares and double takes that puzzled the doctor. John hunched a little bit, resisted the urge to cringe at the heat of some of the stares, and carried on, walking a bit faster.

 _"John."_ The thought had been less panicky and more demanding John of his presence and the doctor hurried around the last corner and stepped swiftly out of the hallway and into...

...World War III.

Or what seemed like it anyhow.

Now that John had gotten closer, he didn't know how he hadn't heard all of the yelling and bickering before. They were not being quiet. At All.

The loudest of them all was Sherlock's brain, it was lobbying tense insults and deductions at anyone and everyone in the room.

John wondered briefly how the detective could get so riled up in less than the two minutes it took John to get to the office.

John took one look around the room and found the reason.

He was presently engaged in a rather tense, not quite shouting, but heated match with Donovan and Anderson, while Lestrade tried to referee.

He would have been amused, because Sherlock was back in his element and the insults were quite humorous, but it was so god damn early and John couldn't fathom the energy.

John released a sigh and leaned his body against the door jamb of Lestrade's office, taking a curious look around while scanning the other occupants of the room.

In addition to the three previous mentioned yarders, DI Dimmock and a man John recognized but didn't know the name of, are stationed in Lestrade office, which isn't that big to begin with, off to the side. Both of their faces held the same, some what, comical expression of shock and stunned silence.

Probably at Sherlock, because the consulting detective is now hurdling insults about Donovan and Andersons' mothers.

Before John finished his lazied scanning of the office, the last occupant had already made a move and walked over to him.

Clarke, whose real name, John had found out last night, was Micah Clark but he got the nickname Clarke early on and that's what he preferred, he said it suited him and John had no qualms, had moved to stand in front of the doctor.

The young man's bright green eyes found the doctor's gaze and gave John a friendly smile.

"Good morning, Sir." Clarke had said quietly, as if he didn't want to disturb the noise coming from the area around Lestrade's desk, where the discussion was getting louder and more heated.

John huffed a laugh at Clarke's whispering and then nodded his tired greetings, too tired even, to open his mouth. Clarke would understand, he had been there last night.

Ah, last night, John remembered idly. When they had given their statements and Sherlock (and John) gotten thoroughly chastised by Lestrade, Clarke had been there the entire time. He was second on the scene and waited with John while he got looked at by the paramedics and even helped Lestrade by writing down their statements. When it was Sherlock's turn to get yelled at, John and the young Sergeant had conversed very easily, and John would even go so far to say that he liked Clarke and the man's easy going nature.

"How are you, sir?" Clarke's whispered words pulled John out of his memories and had him smiling.

"I'm fine, why?" John asked curiously, wondering way the man was giving him that worried look. Clarke shifted closer nervously and John resisted stepping back, his wonderment sky-rocketed at Clarke's weird behavior.

"Your neck, Sir, it doesn't look good." The sergeant whispered glancing behind to see if anybody had heard him.

Realization slammed into John's brain. The looks he got walking through the floor on his way here and Clarke's worried expression, they all made sense now.

The bruises on his neck are probably even worse than last night, he hadn't had a chance to look in the mirror. He cursed and sent a faint bitter glare-like emotion into the connection, not distracting Sherlock's tirade but enough to make the doctor feel better.

"I suppose it doesn't." John had replied and made his way wordlessly out of the room and towards the loo to check for himself.

He opened the door to the empty restroom and strolled to the mirrors above the sink. Red, with splotches of purple, marks stared angrily back at John and the doctor sighed. Clarke was right, these look far worse than last night. He ran his hand along the marks and poked at the tender aches that he hadn't felt before he saw them in the mirror. He can see a long, broad band where Melville's knee pushed into his neck, the thick bruises etched into his skin with brutal accuracy.

John's eyes leave the bruises on his neck, there was nothing his could do about them anyway, and followed the mirror up, to look at his face.

His tired eyes stared back at him before he noticed something else.

"Oh, Christ." John had said with a defeated groan. His hair was all over the place, the epitome of bedhead. He sent another splash of bitter resentment through the link and goes about matting his hair down, trying not to feel the shame of having walked out in public looking like he did.

Once his hair was at the very least tamed, he made his way back to the office, where the voices had quieted down but he could still he hear them going at it, this time Dimmock was adding his opinions in the mix.

Oh great.

John listened to what they were talking about for a little bit but then realized it was so trivial that it didn't bare repeating and he stopped, deciding to look for Clarke.

In the time that John had been in the bathroom, Clarke had disappeared and the doctor looked around for him. Just as he was about to give up, a sound down the hallway caught his attention and he turned to see the younger man coming towards him with something in his hands.

John's mouth started salivating once the smell of coffee assaulted his nose.

"Here you go, Sir." Clarke had said and John gaped for a few minutes, half savoring the smell and the other half baffled by the kindness. Clarke's had was outstretched and the coffee cup, John noticed, was huge. John reached his hand out and took the cup, closing his eyes and inhaling the bitter, familiar smell as the steam warmed his nose.

"Clarke." John said fondly and idly as he tasted the coffee. "This is the best coffee I've ever had." The doctor had said and he opened his eyes to see the sergeant blushing faintly. "Thank you." He added sincerely, taking another sip.

"It's nothing, sir." Clarke said quietly.

They stood in companionable silence for awhile until John broke it.

"How did you get wrapped into the circus in there?" John had asked as he nodded his head toward the office where the shouting was still coming from.

Clarke shrugged before he said, "I was filing down the hall and the next thing I know, Mr. Holmes had me by the neck collar and pulled me into Lestrade's office."

"Really?" John had said, not even bother to hid his surprise. Surprised that Sherlock had grabbed the man because he wanted Clarke's presence and surprise that Clarke went along with it. Only Clarke, John was learning, would admit to being dragged by a oversized man-child as something he normally does, an everyday behavior.

"Really, Sir." The young sergeant confirmed, looking if anything, bemused.

John sighed in exasperation before changing topics again.

"So, how many times do I have to tell you to call me John." The doctor says, a slight rib to the young man. Last night, it had been a constant battle to get Clarke to call him John but the man had refused.

Clarke was about to open his mouth to protest, again, so John had added, "Anyone who doesn't repulse Sherlock on sight can call me John." As if it was a rule of the house and maybe John should think about making it one, really.

"Nonsense, sir," Clarke started as he looked slightly self-conscious, "I was just being me." The statement was so easy and completely matter of fact that John, if possible, respected the man even more.

"All the more reason to call me John." The doctor responded slyly

Clarke had just smiled with a wiled gaze that had John huffing a laugh and made his way past the doctor, not confirming or denying the use of the doctor's christened name, going into the office.

John raised his eyebrows in curiosity and decided to open up a link with the man and was met with...

...nothing.

Absolute and utter silence.

John almost dropped his coffee in shock and panic, his breath started hitching and John was frozen.

The last person who John had met with a silent brain had been Moriarty and that didn't end well. At all.

John clutched his styrofoam cup tightly while his insides panicked. His brain went off with uncertainties and dramatic, panicked questions.

What? Who is Clarke? What does he want? What if Clarke was out to get them? Why else would John not be able to read him?

John watched his hands and noticed faintly when they started to tremble with shock, fear, confusion, uncertainty, and panic, all coursing through his mind.

He stared at nothing until he noticed a person standing in front of him. Sudden hands wrapped around his own, dragging the doctor away from Lestrade's office. The doctor, in his shocked state, was forced to follow.

It wasn't until they were around the corner, verifying that it was empty, that John noticed it was Sherlock who had a hold him and that the detective had been calling his name mentally, for how long John had no idea.

 _"John. John. John. Listen to me. What's wrong?"_ The doctor had been projecting his emotions, his fear. Sherlock had his hands gripping John's shoulders tightly as he tried to get John to respond.

_"John."_

"I, Clarke. I-" John stammered because he just couldn't fathom it. The young man, who had a darling baby, John had seen pictures last night, and who was young and yet friendly and liked Sherlock. Not just liked either, he respected Sherlock and had gained Sherlock's respect in turn.

Which had never happened before, not ever. Sherlock dragged the young man into the meeting for Christ sakes.

_"John."_

How could this twenty-two year old be evil?

_"John."_

How could Moriarty be evil? Bad people don't have age requirements.

_"John. John!"_

John shook his head to clear it, his eyes closed briefly.

_"John. What about Clarke?"_

Sherlock gave John a small shake of the body, the coffee settled between them sloshed ominously. A sudden thought materialized in John's head and he threw the coffee cup away into the rubbish bin next to them with disgusted whimper. What if Clarke had poisoned him? What if the man was working with the remains of Moriarty's empire?

He felt okay, but how long would that last?

 _"John."_ Sherlock's thoughts distracted him and they were getting more and more panicked the longer John didn't respond and the doctor forced himself to take a deep breath and tried to quell his own panic and said, "Clarke, I can't read him."

Sherlock's eyes shot up in surprised before narrowing uncertainly. _"What do you mean, you can't get a read on him?"_

"I didn't mean I can't get a read on him, I mean't _I_ _can't read him."_ The last part John had yelled before looking around with militaristic precision to see if they had been overheard. His eyes had scanned the still empty corridor and he had leaned back around the corner to see if there was anybody there. It was all clear but John forced himself to quiet down.

He was seething, not at Sherlock but more at the mounting suspicion, fear and confusion that was bouncing around in his brain, "There is literally nothing there, Sherlock. He is silent." He let the _just like Moriarty_ hang in the air after his statement, but they both heard it all the same.

Sherlock, despite hearing the hanging silent statement, had his face and his emotions twist with confusion, as if the detective still didn't see the problem.

John turned his body to twist out of Sherlock's immediate area and paced the empty hallway.

Sherlock didn't follow, not right away, he was too busy trying to figure out what John was saying and he had been racking his brain for a reason behind John's sudden erratic and panicked behavior.

"What if, Clarke, what if he-" John started but he can't get his words to make sense through his mouth. Panic and fear had clouded his brain and John flinched in preparation for the oncoming slaughter of blood that he had been fearing might float through his mind at any moment.

Sherlock's eyes widen in realization before he stood in front of John, effectively stopped the doctor in his tracks and grabbed the man's bare hand.

The warmth through the tactile connection stopped John and made him look up.

 _"John."_ Sherlock eyes were blazing and pleading John to calm down and understand. _"Clarke is not a bad person."_

John snorted and refused to meet Sherlock's eyes, sliding downward and away with disbelief. "How do you know?" His voice was quiet and child-like in fear.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and John was forced to look up and see the smug expression. _"Consulting detective, remember?"_

John huffed in exasperation still not entirely convinced, his mind automatically found all of the times when Sherlock had been wrong in his deductions. Before he can voice those, Sherlock's thought pierced through his mind.

 _"John,_ _you cannot just assume those you cannot read are automatically out to get us."_

And that thought stopped John short immediately, because Sherlock was absolutely right.

John gaped as his mind whirred with thoughts. Even though Moriarty had been evil, that didn't mean that all people the telepath will potentially come across will automatically be evil as well.

So far, he had only met two, but what's to be said that Moriarty might have been just a bad egg of the dozen?

John's face twisted in dubious admission. What Sherlock had been saying is maybe, probably true.

John still had his doubts but conceedes the point and as soon as he does, the panic starts to recede.

"I guess." John said, he looked up at Sherlock and felt slightly silly for panicking with such force. He sent a feeling of remorse and sheepish guilt through the connection. _"I'm sorry."_

Sherlock smiled with a sigh of relief before he descended, placing a quick kiss against John's lips.

_"I love you."_

John smiled, despite his freak out and the fact that they were in the middle of Scotland Yard.

"I love you too." He whispered his reply and squeezed the detective's hand as he pulled the taller man back towards Lestrade's office.

When they arrived back in the office, Donovan and Anderson had gone, but Dimmock, the gentlemen John didn't know, and Lestrade had their heads together, as they looked over a file strewn about Greg's desk.

Before Sherlock joined them, John put a hand on the detective's arm which caused the man to look at him questioningly. John had raised his eyebrows, pointed at the stranger and sent questioning confusion into the link, as if he said, _"Who is that man?"_

John didn't want to keep having to refer to the man as 'stranger' in his head for the rest of his life.

Sherlock's lips quirked and he sent a single word.

_DI Gregson._

John smiled gratefully and let go of Sherlock's arm. The detective moved over to the desk and started to talk with the DIs.

Ah, Gregson, John had actually heard the name around the Yard but had never met the man. He took a closer look at the dirty blonde haired man whose posture oozed authority and wondered if he would be friend or foe. Normally, John would automatically assume foe but now with Clarke...

Speaking of Clarke...

John scanned the office and saw the young man hovering patiently behind Lestrade, his eyes were interested as he listened, but he kept his body physically back, until he was summoned.

John hung back and let the DI's and Sherlock talk about god knows what as he observed Clarke dubiously.

He may put his trust in Sherlock but John didn't feel the need to not be wary of Clarke.

The tired sluggish nature that John had experience this morning had gone and now John had focused his adrenaline from his panic on the unsuspecting Sergeant.

The doctor wondered briefly why this had been the first time he had tried to read Clarke's mind, usually he feels out minds when he first meets them. But when they were in Lestrade's office yesterday, John had been too shocked to read the man's mind an then at the crime scene he was preoccupied with Sherlock and his neck and Lestrade's yelling. He scanned his memories idly, looking for a time when they were talking during John's EMT-required once over, that John had tried to read Clarke's mind. Nothing.

In fact, every time that John had tried to delve into the surface of Clarke's mind, John's own mind would would get deterred or distracted. It was like, something had changed John's priorities, somehow something had made John's reply to the topic of conversation a priority over reading Clarke's thoughts.

Interesting.

John pushed his mental awareness out and tried to get into Clarke's brain.

Sherlock's voice had suddenly drifted to John and the doctor looked away from Clarke to peer at Sherlock's flailing arms as he tried to explain why the sister was responsible for-

No!

John screamed at himself for getting distracted. He was slightly annoyed by the fact that he had been so easily diverted from reading Clarke's mind. He hunkered down, mentally, and tried again, this time not letting himself be distracted by Sherlock. He felt things, words and feelings from the connection with Sherlock and even a projected thought from Lestrade, things that had tried to distract him but John didn't stopped.

He pushed and twisted until he felt himself firmly in Clarke's mind.

It was still silent and that unnerved John. He tried to dig gently but there was nothing.

Nothing, until something tickled John's mental senses.

There was something there and John pushed a little further, deeper as he tried to grasp the little bit of stirring in the other wise blank mind.

Finally, as if something had clicked, the smell of subtle peppermint permeates John's mind. It was so pleasant that John got wrapped up in it.

This smell was so pleasant that John was asking himself if something evil could have this pleasant, this friendly of a smell.

John didn't think so but he still remained worried. A sudden noise scared John, enough to make the tentative connection snap and John to look up from the ground he had been zoned out to. Sherlock had a grin on his face while Dimmock, Gregson and Lestrade both looked tired but convinced.

The mental bond buzzed with victory and John knew that Sherlock had won his side of the debate.

But that wasn't what had John stopped in his tracks. After he had done a customary sweep to gauge expressions and locations, John's eyes moved over to Clarke whose posture had changed considerably.

The young man was guarded, he had stepped back a little bit and his face was a mixture of confusion and even slight fear.

Before John had gotten time to be puzzled about the young man's expression or dig deeper into his mind further to see if maybe he could break whatever the mystery Clarke's mind was, Sherlock had grabbed John by the elbow and pulled him along.

For now, John acquiesced that he didn't think Clarke was out to kill them, based off of the Sergeant's reaction at least, but there something was definitely something different about the young man and John was determined to figure it out.

But, as Sherlock dragged John physically out of Scotland Yard, John let the mystery lay until another day.

(End of Flashback)

* * *

John didn't get back to the mystery of Clarke until a long, long time later.

Instead, Sherlock and John had become extremely busy for the next week and a half after their visit to Scotland Yard. Ever since Sherlock's first field case, the detective had demanded more, which was the reason they were there in the first place, John had learned later. Sherlock, through that week and a half worked through almost all of the unsolvable cold cases that Lestrade and even some that Dimmock and Gregson had.

An incredible feat even for the world only consulting detective.

John and Greg had discussed it over a pint one night and John could tell how impressed he was at the genius's fast work. While they sat there drinking their beers, John had felt the pride coming from Greg as well as unexpected gratitude for John. Gratitude so vast, that the doctor knew Lestrade would never say it out loud and just the fact that he thought it was enough for John.

When John had arrived home later that night, buzzed only on the positive emotions, Sherlock had grabbed them and headed back out to catch an embezzler, John smiled the entire time.

John has never seen Sherlock so enthusiastic, or as manic, with cases in such a long time.

But it was different too. Sherlock hadn't become obsessive like he once was. He always informed John mentally of where he was going and even talked to the doctor through the connection as much as he could if they weren't together.

The younger man started to differentiate between priorities. Sherlock had sometimes, stopped a case, mid-pace, to found John, sometimes cuddled into his doctor or other times just being around John and asked how his day had been going. The first time it happened, John had been so surprised he thought something had happened and was almost sent into a panic. That was until he realized that Sherlock just missed John and wanted to convey his love.

It was slightly unnerving but John couldn't help revel in it.

It was another week until Lestrade sheepishly asked if Sherlock wanted to help solve a crime, with a fresh crime. It was John who hesitated more than Sherlock did.

The detective had single handedly gone through all the cold cases and that was fine but they were detached, just photos. There had been no blood, besides their own, spilled and there had been no opportunity really for Sherlock to go into a panic. This was too soon.

But, the cold cases had boosted the man's confidence faster than John thought they would and Sherlock knew it. John had looked at Sherlock and sent caution and worry with a hint of uncertainity. _"Are you sure?"_ and the detective had nodded with such optimism that John was forced to resign his protests.

When they had gotten to the crime scene, after John had pulled Lestrade aside, asking after the victim's hair color to which Greg responded that _she_ was a _ginger._

Perfect.

Even though Sherlock didn't hesitate at any blonde victims in the cold case files they had been going through in the past weeks, John wasn't keen on testing Sherlock's tentative relationship with crime on his first official day back.

John ventured away from the DI after confirming other minor details that worried him to find Sherlock at the entrance of the house, while people bustled around him, seemingly ignoring the still detective.

He walked straight up to Sherlock and gripped the man's hand in his own and squeezed with gentle force. The point of contact buzzed with warmth and John had sent confidence, courage and relaxation. _"You are fine. You can do this."_

Sherlock had looked back at John with a hint of fear but confidence that had John smiling brightly. The doctor had squeezed one last time before shooing the detective further into the house. Sherlock had smiled and tore through the front door and into the confines of something he had once feared.

John can hear the man demanding and yelling and followed him with a happy expression.

That was the start of the case named "The Severed Feet Slasher."

That, coincidentally, was the first case that John had wrote about in his blog since being back and was subsequently the first active case that Sherlock had participated in.

Both took to their jobs like one took to riding a bicycle they hadn't ridden for years. With self-confidence and sentimental pinning.

They've been going to crime scenes ever since.

* * *

John turns another corner, he is now only a street away from home, when a black sedan pulls him out of his deep thought and memories.

"Great." John mutters to himself with a sigh.

The sedan creeps towards him and John feels a sudden, unexplainable uneasy vibrate through his emotions.

He scans the immediate area, searching for threats. Instead, he finds Mycroft's caramel and chocolate smell and deflates his panic. The sedan stops on the street in front of the doctor and John can feel Mycroft's fast but patient thoughts.

The two of them have a tentative friendship at the moment. John had apologized, a long time ago, about the day of his return, for crippling Mycroft with emotions and, in turn, Mycroft had apologize, quite sincerely according to his mental thoughts, for deceiving John and manipulating the both of them. They had parted ways and John hasn't really talked to Mycroft since, other than polite greetings when the politician would visit Sherlock at Baker Street.

So, he is slightly cautious of willingly getting into the car. Not to mention that he has had really bad experiences with getting into the car with Mycroft. Mycroft basically threatened to use him as the government's weapon that one time.

However, Mycroft sends a budding thought of impatience and the car door opens with the greatest hint. John walks over and warily gets in. As he settles down, he sends annoyance and frustration, their code for Mycroft, through the link to Sherlock, and then a sense of bemusement.

_"Mycroft?"_

Sherlock responds mentally with the same tone of bemusement and even a slight bit of worry. The detective is all to aware of Mycroft's car kidnappings and where they lead.

John just sends happiness and safety. _"Yes, I'm fine."_

The doctor settles into the leather backseat, listening to the short grumbling coming from the detective about his meddling older brother and John can't help being amused.

Mycroft opens his mouth to speak but John beats him too it, "You are to take me home within the next twenty minutes." Mycroft's eyebrow rises and he looks at John with slight confusion.

"The last time I was in this car with shopping, you intended to use me as a lab rat and your brother had to rescue me. AND, I had to get the shopping again because it got left in the back seat."

Instead of a closed off, defensive feeling, that John was mildly worried he might have gotten, Mycroft lets out an honest to god chuckle and amusement filters out from the elder Holmes's mind.

_"Fair enough."_

The thought is easy going and there is no hint of malice, in fact, Mycroft's mind holds no open hostility or defensive measure at all, just content friendliness.

It's extremely off-putting to tell the truth.

John doesn't speak for a whole minute because of Mycroft's good, and even more telling easily identified, good mood.

He almost asks him about what sort of antics Greg and the politician had gotten up to because there was really no reason for his good mood.

"Greg and I are doing just fine, John." Mycroft says drily, reading the doctor's puzzled expression and John startles. He hates when the man does that. "He is, yes, one of many reasons for my blithe mood."

Blithe, there's the Mycroft he knows and doesn't love.

John decides that finding out why Mycroft is happy and not hiding it like he normally does is making his head hurt so he just lets it go.

"What do you want?" John says rather warily. He hopes this isn't like the time he had to read that blue-sleeved man's mind and ended up incarcerating him. John would very much not ruin the timid association with Mycroft.

"John, must you always assume the worst of me?" Mycroft asks blankly, but John can sense the bit of irritation in Mycroft's mind.

Still, John can only think of one answer to that question and it's two words, 'Well, yes.'

He's really needs to learn how to keep blank expressions.

"Regardless, I merely required your presence for a chat." Mycroft says, waving a hand dismissively.

"Mycroft, how many times do I have to tell you? I have a phone, you know this, you gave it to me." John sighs exasperated, running a hand through his hand.

"Yes. I'm well aware of your technologies, John. Maybe I missed your extremely pleasant behavior." Mycroft says dryly while one of his hands dust a piece of non-existant lint of his pristine trousers.

John knows its an insult but he can't help but bark a laugh at it. It seems like Mycroft's unsettling, happy behavior from before has either diminished or he's internalized it. Either way, John is grateful so he lets the insult slide.

"Yes, okay. Really, Mycroft, if this milk spoils..." John says, leaving the last part of the sentence hanging, hoping that the politician will get to the bleeding point already.

"I just wanted to thank you." Mycroft's words come out in a sort of rush, restless like, and they completely blindside the doctor.

"What?" is John's elegant response. He's face is a puzzled mess, he doesn't know if Mycroft is be facetious or if he is really there to thank John. Based off the nervous tension that the older man is projecting, John likes to think that Mycroft actually meant what he said.

 _"My gratitude, John, honestly."_ When the thought comes out of Mycroft's mind, John is forced to look at the man's haughty, 'you're an idiot' expression that is scarily similar to the one Sherlock sometimes wears.

"Your gratitude?" John repeats, mostly because his words are working because he is too busy wracking through his brain trying to find any time where he's heard the man express gratitude.

Mycroft sighs with slight vexation and he says the next words as if he's speaking to a five year old. "Yes, I'm grateful that you decided to go along with hunting down Moriarty, even though it pained you to do so."

 _It still pains me._ Is John's first thought before he even registers the words of the rest of the statement. He snorts shortly at the choice of words, 'decided to go along..' like John had an actual choice in the matter. He's about to say his two cents worth when he feels the tense shame and guilt being projected, (and a part of John wonders briefly why Mycroft's barriers are so open nowadays) from the older man's mind.

"Mycroft," John starts, his voice gentle and warm, soothing, but the man holds his hand up before the blogger can continue.

"I know I apologized already but I never did thank you. I perhaps was a little wrong in forcing you into the situation but I'm very grateful that you agreed." The politician states and his words are sincere and well thought out, like he had talk about them before.

"You've been talking to Greg." John snorts once he figures it out, his smug eyes finding Mycroft's shifting body.

"That is...irrelevant."Mycroft stammers out before looking straight back at the doctor, as if daring him to contradict.

Which means yes, John thinks, and huffs a laugh.

"It also has come to my attention," Mycroft starts but John interrupts that as, 'Greg has made me aware', "That I have never apologized for my flippant behavior the day we returned. I'm afraid I handled that really poorly." The politician finishes glaring at John as if he heard the part about Greg.

John just sighs with wariness. He can feel Mycroft's thoughts and feelings brush against his mind and knows the honesty behind the older man's words.

And in truth, John had forgiven the man a while ago. Yes, he's still bitter and still recovering from the traumatic experiences, on his and Sherlock's side, but he knows why the elder Holmes did it.

He was protecting England and in turn his brother. John knew that then and he respects that know, even if it fucked the both of them up.

"Mycroft, we've been through this," John wearily says. "Both of our nerves and emotions were on edge that day. I've already apologized for my behavior that day and I don't think any more reason for us to dwell on it any longer. What's done is done."

And that, John thinks, is that.

The doctor sends the older man and easy smile and Mycroft lips quirk as his visibly deflates with relief. John senses that Mycroft had been genuinely worried that John had been irreversibly mad at him.

And that sends John reeling, the fact that Mycroft likes John and cares about what the doctor thinks.

For a second, he muses that Greg is good for Mycroft and his, well previously, emotionally stunted mind.

John glances out the window as they pull up to Baker Street, having taken the long way around, via all of London.

He smiles a silly smile at returning home before looking over at Mycroft.

"It's been a pleasure, always." John says kindly but with a bit of sarcasm that has the politician scowling. He gathers up his groceries and grabs the handle, intending to let himself out.

_"John, wait."_

John lets go of the handle in surprise at the force and timidness of the thought.

Really, this entire situation has John reeling with shock and unappetizing new feelings for the older man. He almost feels...connected with him.

John resists the urge to spit on that thought.

"I also wanted to thank you for helping Sherlock." Mycroft's usual demanding voice, is whispered.

Of all the things that Mycroft could have potentially said, this was literally the last thing John would have ever expected. He gapes like a fish for awhile, trying to find something to say.

"My brother, as you know, disintegrates with stagnation and I don't know," John snorts at this admission earning him a glare, "what would have happened if he didn't start to do something with his mind again. I don't know how he would have coped he hadn't started to take his little projects again." Mycroft finishes stronger than he had begin and in such a rush of words that John describes as a ramble, or something close to one.

He holds up a hand before the man can continue his shocking gratitude.

"Mycroft," He begins, holding the older man's gaze, willing him to understand, "Of all the things you could possibly thank me for, this is not it. This was something that had to be done because Sherlock needed it." John says this kindly but with conviction.

"Regardless, Doctor, you have my gratitude." Mycroft responds just as steadily but with a smile.

John nods with an accepted tilt of his head before saying, "Don't say that too much, Mycroft or I might consider that an indebted statement."

"If you do, you would be sorely mistaken." Mycroft straightens and just like that, the last five minutes or really the entire car ride seem like a foreign thing to John as Mycroft's behavior returns to its normal blank and snobbish stance.

John just chuckles at the familiarity and gather his shopping (again), bidding Mycroft a good evening and thanks for the ride.

He shuts the door and intends to head towards the front door when he hears the whirring of the window being brought down.

"You know, John. You do have a very indispensable array of skills-" The politician says, his voice rather silky with a sort of professional seduction.

"Not a chance, Mycroft." John laughs out right, "I'm definitely not working for you."

"Pity." Is all the older man says as he scoots back, puts up the window and motions for the driver to pull the sedan away. John watches as the car turns onto another street and chuckles at the man's antics.

He turns back towards the door and looks up to the curtain-free windows of the flat. Sherlock stands there staring down at him and the doctor can feel a sense of worry but mostly relief coming through the link.

The doctor just smiles and opens the door to 221B Baker Street.


End file.
